Into the Light
by Aurora Nova
Summary: Marcus of Whiterun, called Dragonborn, prepares to launch resistance against the final assault from the Aldmeri Dominion, to fight the Last Great War for the freedom of Tamriel. Fourth in a series; sequel to "Into the Maelstrom," "Into the Darkness," and "Into the Ashes."
1. Chapter 1

**Into the Light, Part 1: In the Company of Thieves**

 **Chapter 1**

 _[Author's Note: Welcome to the fourth installation of my "Into the…" saga with Marcus of Whiterun, called "Dragonborn," and his wife, Arch-Mage Tamsyn. The overarching title for this work is "Into the Light," suggested by Dragonrdr135, but the first part of this is set during the time between "Into the Darkness," and "Into the Ashes." The events related here have a bearing on the story as a whole, and is why I have decided to divide the work into Part 1 and Part 2. Part 1, as you can see, is "In the Company of Thieves." Disclaimer: all canon events, characters and settings belong to Bethesda. I own nothing but a few original characters, plotlines and backstories. Please read and review. Thank you! ~~Aurora Nova.]_

* * *

 _ **10**_ _ **th**_ _ **Rain's Hand, 4E 204**_

"You wanted to see me, Your Majesty?" Lance de Fer asked, bowing as he entered the presence of the Emperor of Tamriel.

"Yes, Councilor," the old monarch beamed, waving him in. "Come in, come in! I have something I wish to discuss with you. And close the door behind you, please."

Lance did as he was bid and approached the ornately gilded and carved wooden desk behind which was seated the most powerful man in all the Empire. His feet made barely a sound, muffled by thick, expensive woolen carpets from Hammerfell. The bright colors of their intricate designs were muted by the sunlight streaming in through panes of stained glass in the large, circular room. It was the top-most chamber in the White Gold Tower, and though he had been here a handful of times already, it never ceased to impress the young antiquities dealer, who had so recently become a trusted advisor to the Emperor himself.

 _Only because I uncovered a plot to assassinate him,_ Lance thought privately. _Thank the gods Cicero was able to get to Amaund Motierre in time!_

Lance de Fer was his alter-ego. In reality, he was Dante Greyshadow, leader of the Cyrodiil Thieves' Guild, known to some as the Grey Fox. Fortunately, it was not known to Titus Mede the Second, or Motierre would not have been the only casualty that day. All the elder monarch knew was that a young Breton shopkeeper had stumbled onto a plot against his life and had taken it upon himself to warn and protect his Emperor from one of his own courtiers, Amaund Motierre, who had decided he had waited long enough for the Ruby Throne to become vacant.

Cicero was the Keeper, one of the last members of an unsavory association of assassins known as the Dark Brotherhood. Motierre had attempted contacting the Brotherhood to carry out his request to murder the Emperor, but he had not known that the hero known as the Dragonborn had already decimated the organization, and they in effect no longer existed. Cicero had escaped the purge by virtue of not being in the Sanctuary when the Dragonborn "cleaned house," and in an ironic twist of fate, had somehow found himself linked to the champion through a connection with the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, who was married to the Dragonborn. That connection, Dante admitted privately to himself, still escaped his comprehension.

In any event, Cicero owed him a favor for his aid in assisting the Arch-Mage in escaping from the Thalmor, and the unstable little Imperial had returned the favor by hovering near Motierre during Lance de Fer's presentation of the evidence against him. As expected, Motierre panicked and made a desperate attempt to murder the Emperor in cold blood in front of the entire court. Cicero had gotten to him first, slipping a contact poison into Motierre's robes where his dagger lay hidden. It was an extremely virulent poison. Motierre convulsed and collapsed before he had gone three steps, and the damning documents proved the case against him. Cicero slipped away into the crowd during the ensuing confusion, to be rewarded later by the Grey Fox for his assistance. Dante believed in being fair, even as Cicero had protested he was only paying a debt. He still pocketed the money, however. Dante wasn't surprised.

So here he was, standing in front of the man whose life he had saved, dressed in finer clothing than a modest dealer in antiquities could hope to afford, waiting for his liege to speak. He looked around the richly appointed room and felt the familiar itching in his fingers.

 _So much good stuff in here!_ he thought with a private smirk. But now was not the time for his avarice to rear her beautiful head. There would be time enough for that later, if his plans came to fruition. He waited patiently for his Emperor to speak, studying him as he did so.

Tall, but bent now with age, Titus Mede the Second must once have been an imposing figure. Behind him, on the wall, hung a portrait of him, painted when he was a much younger man. In full military regalia, the dark-haired Imperial glared out at the world with a disdainful look in his eyes, as if posing for his portrait was an imposition upon his valuable time. The artist had captured that look with brilliant clarity. Dante compared it to the figure seated before him now, a balding, feeble man of advanced years, with parchment-thin skin stretched over a frame bent with infirmity. Liver spots dotted his hands and face. The only thing that had not changed over the years were his eyes; pale grey, and slightly rheumy, they still peered out at the world with the distaste of someone who has accidentally stepped in something they could not scrape off their boot. Those eyes were scrutinizing him closely at the moment, and Dante forced himself to focus.

"How long have you been in Cyrodiil, Councilor de Fer?" the Emperor asked suddenly.

Dante thought back quickly. "About a dozen years, Your Majesty," he replied. "Give or take a couple."

"And you've been dealing in rare artifacts all this time?"

Without missing a beat, Dante nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty," he answered. "I became interested in antiques at an early age as a boy in High Rock. When I grew older I decided Cyrodiil would be a much better place to set up shop. Many adventurers come through here, bringing the treasures they find with them." There was no way he would admit his real reason for leaving High Rock. "Might I inquire the reason for Your Majesty's curiosity?" he added carefully.

The Emperor said nothing for a long moment, before shrugging. "I thought you reminded me of someone I once knew," he said. "It doesn't matter. That was a long time ago, and the past is nothing more than dead ashes." He brooded several heartbeats before shaking off his melancholy. "That is not the reason I asked you here, however," he continued briskly. "I wanted to ask your opinion about something. I am considering adopting the Dragonborn, if he is amenable. I have no living heir, you see."

Dante felt his heart lurch. _The Dragonborn? Dammitall!_

The Ruby Throne was the position he had coveted for himself. His reasons for saving the Emperor's life from Motierre had not been entirely altruistic. It would not do, however, to let Titus Mede know that.

"The Dragonborn?" he said aloud, hand to his chin, stroking his goatee, as if considering the matter. "It would certainly make sense, Your Majesty," he admitted. "The Dragonborn were, after all, rulers of the Empire before the last Septim sacrificed himself during the Oblivion Crisis."

"Yes, I know," Titus Mede said smugly. "What better way to ensure the security of the realm after I'm gone, than by attaching that name to mine through adoption?"

Dante nodded, but felt obliged to remind his liege of the obvious. "As I recall, however, the current Dragonborn is not a Septim."

"That we know of," the Emperor pointed out. "In point of fact we know very little about this 'Marcus Dragonborn' other than that he is an Imperial. We know what he has accomplished in the last few years, since the return of Alduin, the World-Eater, but beyond that there is nothing."

"Would it not be wiser, then, Your Majesty," Dante ventured carefully, "to choose someone with whom you are better acquainted? Someone you know almost as well as you know yourself?"

"There aren't many of those left, Councilor de Fer," Titus Mede snorted. "I've just about out-lived everyone I knew when I first became Emperor."

"There's General Tullius," Dante suggested. "He has been loyal to you throughout the years."

The Emperor shook his head. "Tullius is a military man," he dismissed. "He's a brilliant strategist, but a terrible diplomat. And I have had to dance my way around the Dominion for years, now, keeping them from taking advantage of our weaknesses. Besides, until that Civil War nonsense in Skyrim is settled, I need him there as Military Governor of the Province."

With effort, Titus Mede hauled himself to his feet and, after pausing a moment to get his balance, walked slowly and unsteadily over to the window. He stared out at the vista below; the Imperial City spread out like a fractured jewel in a tarnished setting.

"I need someone who is a proven diplomat," he continued, "but who also has experience on the field of battle. I need someone the people will accept as one of their own, even if his past remains a mystery. I need the Dragonborn."

"He may not come, Your Majesty," Dante cautioned. "He has a wife and family, firmly rooted in Skyrim. His wife is the Arch-Mage of the College at Winterhold; she certainly would take a great deal of persuasion to pack up everything to come down here to Cyrodiil." Dante knew from personal experience how stubborn the Arch-Mage could be. At least she still owed him a favor; she had promised to help him retrieve Mehrunes' Razor. It had been a few months since that promise was made, however, and too much had happened since then. He was certain she hadn't forgotten, but it might be time to call in that favor. He doubted very much that she would view uprooting herself and her family to Cyrodiil as a viable option of repaying the debt she owed to him for helping to save her life. Still, it wouldn't hurt to ask.

"Then I will have to send someone to speak with him," Titus Mede conceded. "I'm not going to make this an order, Councilor," he continued. "I could, but I won't. One does not make demands of a hero the stature of the Dragonborn. I'll draft a letter this evening for you to take to him."

Dante blinked twice. "Me?" he blurted, his eyes widening. Quickly he recovered his composure. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but you want _me_ to deliver this letter? Why not just send it through the usual diplomatic channels?"

The Emperor glared at him. "You know as well as I know that the Dominion has spies everywhere, de Fer," he said scornfully. "The last thing I want to do is to put them on notice that I'm considering remedying a shortcoming that has been overlooked for too long." He sighed. "This would not have been necessary if…" He let his voice trail off, before saying firmly. "I want this letter delivered directly to the Dragonborn, de Fer, understand? You're the only one I can trust with this mission."

"I understand, Your Majesty," Dante replied, bowing. Inwardly, his mind was whirling.

"Good," the Emperor nodded. "I'll need some time to write this, and then I want you on the next carriage to Skyrim. Dismissed."

Dante bowed and backed his way out of the room.

 _The Dragonborn!_ he thought wildly. _Of all the people in Tamriel he could have chosen, why_ him? _And why_ now?

Had it been anyone else, he might have found ways to either discredit the person, persuade Titus Mede they were a bad choice, or find some way to persuade the candidate that it might be healthier for them to move to another Province…or preferably another continent. But this was the _Dragonborn,_ for Nocturnal's sake!

Personally, Dante knew as much about him as the Emperor did, or perhaps a little more. He had not been idle, these past few months since aiding the Arch-Mage and effecting her escape from the Thalmor. (The fallout from that alone had been perversely satisfying to watch from his position as an outside observer.) Finding out information about the Arch-Mage and her husband, however, had been about as frustrating as looking for gold in a copper mine. Prior to the last three years, it seemed they simple hadn't existed. All that was truly known was that both had survived the destruction of Helgen, a small town in Falkreath Hold in Skyrim. Before that, it was a blank slate.

At least he had had some direct contact with the Arch-Mage. He admired and respected her uncanny knowledge and insight regarding the ultimate design of the Aldmeri Dominion: to annihilate any and all non-Altmer races, in a misguided belief that doing so would help them regain their so-called 'lost divinity.' The Altmer believed, erroneously, that they were not simply _created_ by the Aedra, but were in fact _descended_ from them. Furthermore, in order for them to restore their status as gods, they intended to eradicate every race that spawned following the creation of Mundus, when the Aedra were duped by Lorkhan into giving up a part of themselves to bring the world and everything in it into being. In short, they intended to 'erase the mistakes that were made.'

 _Well,_ this _'mistake' has every intention of preventing that from happening,_ he thought resolutely. If Tamsyn and her husband intended to take the fight to the Dominion, he, Dante Greyshadow, would call upon his considerable resources to aid and abet them. But that didn't mean he wanted the Dragonborn to become the next Emperor. Dante scowled to himself. _There's got to be a way I can stop this._

But first, of course, he would have to go and meet the man.

* * *

Marcus of Whiterun, called 'Dragonborn', scowled at his lovely wife.

"I don't know about this," he growled, clearly unhappy. "I mean, what do you actually _know_ about the man?"

"Not much," Tamsyn admitted, "other than the fact that he's a Nightingale, like Brynjolf, and has taken over the mantel of the Grey Fox in Cyrodiil."

Marcus frowned. "I don't know what that means," he said. "Who or what is the 'Grey Fox'?"

Tamsyn waddled over to the nearest chair and settled herself heavily, shifting until she was comfortable. Marcus grabbed a nearby pillow and put it behind her back. She smiled at him gratefully. Seven months' along in her first pregnancy – at least, in _this_ life – she felt as awkward as a mammoth at a tea party, and just as graceful. The letter from the Guildmaster in Cyrodiil couldn't have come at a worse time.

 _Well, to be fair, it could have,_ she thought. _I could have been in labor!_

She turned to her husband now, who had settled himself across from her in the other chair flanking the fireplace in their private chambers at Heljarchen.

"The Grey Fox," she explained in a low voice, after looking around to make sure neither Lydia nor Gregor was nearby, "was a character from another game, called 'Oblivion,' set in the same world as Skyrim and created by the same company. In that game, which was set, ironically enough, during the Oblivion Crisis, he was the leader of the Cyrodiil Thieves' Guild. As the player character, you help him with several jobs, which all lead to him removing the curse that Nocturnal put upon her Cowl, that had been stolen from her centuries before by a clever thief."

"How was it cursed?" Marcus wondered.

"While he wore the Cowl," Tamsyn replied, "no one would know who the Grey Fox was, neither by race, gender or identity. He was simply 'the Grey Fox.' Even his own wife assumed he was dead and ignored him whenever he came near her. It was as though for her, he simply didn't exist. He wanted to go back to her but needed help in removing that curse."

"Alright," Marcus allowed. "But you said that happened two hundred years ago. Clearly, he failed, if he's still around today."

Tamsyn chuckled and shook her hair, the lock of white hair at one side of her coppery head gleaming in the firelight. "No, clearly he succeeded," Tamsyn said. "Because the man I met was a Breton, and they don't live that long. I'm going to go out on a limb and assume it was the Savior of Bruma, the Hero of Kvatch, who helped him remove the curse. Furthermore, I'm going to guess that even though the curse on the Cowl was broken, it was still handed down as a sort of badge of office within their organization."

Marcus considered this. "It means we still don't know very much about the man," he frowned.

"No," Tamsyn admitted, "but so far he's kept his promise to me to funnel information about Dominion activities our way, and he's given me spells and magical artifacts the Thalmor wanted hidden away from the rest of the world."

"True," Marcus nodded. He sighed, glancing again at the letter he still held in his hand. "Well, you certainly can't go running around Akatosh's little green acre," he pointed out. He held up a hand when she would have protested. "It's one thing for you to head to Winterhold or Solitude, or even Blackreach," he continued. "But you don't even know where this Mehrunes' Razor is." He shot her a keen look. "Oh wait…you _do_ know, don't you?"

Tamsyn giggled. "I do," she said smugly, "but in point of fact, I agree with you. I shouldn't be traipsing all over Skyrim finding the pieces and putting myself and our baby in danger. That's why I think you should go with him."

Marcus groaned. "I _knew_ you were going to suggest that!"

* * *

The carriage arrived at Whiterun before the gates closed for the night. Dante claimed his travel bag and presented his badge of office to the guard, Baldur, who allowed him to pass through.

"How do I get to the Pale from here?" he asked Baldur.

"Depends," the Nord guard replied. "If you're headed to Dawnstar, you can take the carriage. Any place else, and you may have to walk, unless Jervar has a horse you can buy."

"Buy?" Dante blinked. "Can't I just rent one?"

Baldur laughed. "This isn't Cyrodiil, Councilor," the blonde Nord grinned. "You're out in the wilds of the north now. If you want a horse, you'll have to buy one, or walk. Where are you headed?"

"A place called 'Heljarchen'," Dante said sourly, butchering the name. He hadn't counted on having to walk!

"Ah, the Dragonborn's place!" Baldur smiled now, in genuine camaraderie. "I'm afraid you'll have to walk there, too," he continued. "But it's really not all that far. Maybe a half a day north, just past the Loreius farm, which is just past Whitewatch Tower. The road east of here, that follows along the White River for a way, runs right past the Loreius farm. _Heljarchen_ —" he pronounced it 'Hel-yar-ken', "—is just north of that, across the border in the Pale."

"Thanks," Dante replied, then asked, "Where can a man get a good night's rest and a drink?"

Baldur grinned again. "The Bannered Mare is the best place," he advised. "Straight up the road here, at the far end of the market square. You can't miss it."

Dante thanked him again and headed into town. He hadn't gone far when a Redguard stopped him.

"You there," the man called. Dante stopped and turned. The man was dressed as an Alik'r warrior, with soft boots for walking on sand, loose-fitting trousers and a comfortable shirt under a hardened leather cuirass. A cloth was wrapped and bound around his head; in the desert, it would have kept the sun from boiling his brains away. A wide belt straddled his hips, from which hung a very wicked-looking scimitar.

"Can I…help you?" Dante drawled. It was late, he was tired, and he really didn't want to stop, but he hadn't risen as high as he had in his organization by ignoring potential allies. It was well known that the Redguards of Hammerfell had no love for the Aldmeri Dominion. They had fought them to a stand-still twenty years or so previous, but it had left them weakened. He was curious to know what two Redguard Alik'r warriors were doing in Skyrim.

"We are looking for someone in Whiterun, and will pay good money for information," said one of the warriors, who was apparently the spokesman for the duo.

"Oh?" Dante perked up his ears. Where money was involved, a profit could be made. "Just who are you looking for?"

"A woman," the Alik'r said. "A foreigner in these lands. Redguard, like us. She is likely not using her true name. We will pay for any information regarding her location." He shot a glance at the guard, Baldur, who was hovering nearby, glaring at them. "We are not welcome here in Whiterun, so we will be in Rorikstead if you learn anything."

Dante considered this. "May I ask why you're looking for her?" he inquired. The last thing he wanted was to get embroiled in some petty kidnapping ring, or slave trade, which the Alik'r were famous for.

"It's none of your concern," the Redguard told him severely. "All you need to know is that we're paying for information. If that doesn't interest you, feel free to walk away."

His attitude rubbed Dante the wrong way, and he gave a mocking bow. "This is me," he jeered, "walking away."

He turned and headed up the street to the Bannered Mare. Inside it was a busy night. Many of the citizens of Whiterun had come in for a drink, a song, and to relax after their long day of trying to make a living.

Dante sat down at the nearest table with his back to the wall, in clear view of most of the room.

"Saadia, dear, wake up!" the innkeeper called.

"Yes, mum!" a woman's voice replied, and shortly after, a Redguard beauty with deep blue eyes and hair like midnight stepped up to his table.

 _My night just got a little better,_ Dante smiled to himself. He ordered some food and a drink, and asked for a room for the night.

"You'll have to speak with Hulda about the room, handsome," the wench replied, "but I think we have a place for you. If not, I'll see what I can do." She swept her eyes appreciatively over his form and hurried off to fill his order.

Dante grinned and went over to the bar to speak to Hulda.

"A room for the night?" she echoed. "Of course. That will be ten septims, please." She pocketed the coins he handed her and said, "I'll show you to your room, if you like."

"Not right now," Dante replied, shaking his head. "I just ordered food."

"Oh, that's fine, then," Hulda smiled. "It's at the top of the stairs, there, first door on the right."

Dante returned to his table and listened to the bard crooning and strumming old favorites to the townsfolk while he waited for his food. When Saadia arrived with his meal, he thanked her, appreciating the sensuous sway of her hips as she returned to the kitchen.

He wondered briefly if she knew about the Alik'r mercenaries at the front gate, then wondered why he cared. It really was none of his business, as the Redguard had said, but it was the man's attitude that rankled him. Diplomacy, clearly, was not a Redguard strong suit.

Saadia returned a short while later to clear away the trenchers. She smiled warmly at Dante, and he felt she might find as much amusement in the Alik'r merc's attitude as he had.

"Do you get much time off, Saadia?" he asked. "We could go outside for a walk when you're done here."

"Oh, no," she demurred. "Thank you, but I tend to stay in a lot, even when I'm not working. I guess I'm don't enjoy being outside that much."

"You must have spent some time outdoors as a girl in Hammerfell, though?" he asked.

Saadia shook her head as she scrubbed the table. "I haven't been in Hammerfell for some years," she replied. "I…tended to move around a lot."

"I suppose you don't get to see many of your people in Skyrim, then," he nodded, commiserating. "Did you see those Alik'r mercenaries at the front gate?"

Crockery crashed to the floor and the entire room went silent.

"Oh, Saadia," Hulda cried wearily. "Clean that mess up!"

Several patrons broke out into laughter, and the music and conversations started up once more.

"At once, mum!" the Redguard woman muttered, gathering up the broken pieces in her apron.

"I'm sorry," Dante apologized. "Did I say something wrong?"

"The Alik'r have found me!" she whispered, fear in her liquid blue eyes. "They're here!"

Things clicked into place. "Is there something I can help you with?" he asked.

"Not here!" Saadia pleaded. "Come to my room, later tonight. Take the kitchen stairs, then the first room on the right. Please, you must help me!"

"Alright," Dante promised quietly, his curiosity – among other things – thoroughly aroused. "I'll come up later, after things quiet down here."

Throwing him a grateful look, Saadia gathered up the last of the broken dishes and fled to the kitchen. He didn't see her the rest of the evening.

He waited in his room until the inn settled for the night. The bard, Mikael, had finally squawked his last tedious love ballad, and the other patrons had shuffled out the door to head to their respective homes and beds. He gave it another half hour, just to make sure the innkeeper, Hulda, had finally drifted off to sleep in the room behind her bar before creeping downstairs to the kitchen. Up the stairs he glided, a shadow against other shadows. No one would have known he was there.

A soft rapping at Saadia's door caused it to crack open a sliver, until she saw who stood there. Then she opened it only wide enough for him to pass through before closing it quietly behind him.

"Well," he said quietly, "I'm here. What seems to be the trouble?"

Saadia whirled around, whipping out a dagger from under her apron. Balancing lightly on the balls of her feet, it was clear she knew how to use the simple steel blade in her hand.

"So," she growled dangerously, "are you working with the Alik'r? You think you can take me? You so much as touch me, and you're going to lose fingers!"

Startled, Dante put his hands up. "Wait a minute!" he protested. "What is this? Are you serious? I thought you wanted help. Remember, _you_ invited _me_ up here!"

"I'm deadly serious," Saadia hissed, trying to keep her voice low. "Why else would you have mentioned them to me? So, the Alik'r know where I am?"

"I don't know…" Dante began, exasperated, but she cut him off in a panic.

"What did they offer you? Gold?" Saadia demanded, waving the dagger defensively in front of her. "How many more of them are coming?"

Irritation set in and Dante felt his earlier arousal fizzle like embers in a rainstorm. "Put that thing down before you get hurt," he warned, eyes glittering.

Fear entered Saadia's eyes, and she let the tip of the knife fall. "I'm sorry!" she wavered. "Just…just don't hurt me! Please," she implored. "I _know_ you're not one of them, but you just _can't_ help them! You can't let them know I'm here. I'm begging you to help me."

Dante considered this. "Maybe…" he said slowly. "What do you want?"

Saadia gestured for him to sit at the small table to one side of the tiny room. She seated herself opposite when he had done so.

"The men who are looking for me," she explained, "the Alik'r, they're assassins in the employ of the Aldmeri Dominion. They wish to exchange my blood for gold."

"Why?"

Saadia sighed. "I am not who the people of Whiterun think I am," she confessed. "My real name is Iman, from House Suda in Hammerfell. I spoke out against the Aldmeri Dominion. I suspect that's why they sent these men after me."

Something wasn't adding up in her story, Dante knew, but for now he decided to let it pass and hear her out.

"So, you want me to get rid of them for you," he surmised. "And just how am I supposed to accomplish that?"

In point of fact, he felt fairly confident he could do the job, but he had also heard stories of the Alik'r. It would not do to rush into anything just yet.

"They're mercenaries," Saadia – or rather, Iman – said. "They're only in it for the money. They're led by a man named Kematu. If you get rid of him, the rest will scatter."

Dante knew, from his stilted conversation earlier with the Alik'r merc, that they had already left Whiterun to wait for word of their quarry in Rorikstead. He had no intention of tramping all over Skyrim tracking Kematu down.

"Any suggestions as to how I find this…Kematu?" he asked wryly.

Iman hesitated. "I overheard one of the guards yesterday say that one of them was caught trying to sneak into the city," she admitted. "If he's locked up in the jail, perhaps you can get it out of him."

Dante gave himself a mental nod. It was possible. It would depend a great deal on how much loyalty the captured Alik'r had to his band of brothers. Clearly, though, there would be no evening entertainment tonight. He rose.

"I promise nothing," he warned. "But I'll talk to the man in the jail and see what he has to say. It will have to wait until morning, however."

"You won't go unrewarded," Iman promised. "I managed to smuggle some of my wealth out of Hammerfell when I left. There will be a tidy sum set aside for you if you get rid of the Alik'r for me. It's the least I can do."

Dante gave a leering smile. "Yes," he nodded. "That would be the very least. We'll discuss my…fee…later."

He turned and left, though he didn't miss the appreciative smile that came over her face. It would seem Iman wasn't averse to the idea of fringe benefits.

The man locked up in the Whiterun jail, formerly a member of the Alik'r, had been helpful, but at a cost. Dante rumbled under his breath at the one hundred septims he had been forced to fork over just to get the fetcher to talk. He was amused, however, that Whiterun's finest didn't seem in an all-fired hurry to release their prisoner.

He had asked directions to Swindler's Den, but none of the guards knew where it was.

"Try asking the court mage, Farengar," one of the female guards said. "He keeps a map of Skyrim in his quarters. I'm sure he'll help you."

Dante gave a respectful bow. "Thank you," he smiled. "You're a credit to your uniform." He gave her curves an appreciative look before heading up to Dragonsreach proper.

The court mage's superior attitude grated on Dante, but he held on to his temper long enough to get the information he came for, and within the hour, he was well on his way to the place where Kematu laired with his band of Alik'r mercenaries. The fetcher in the jail had warned him that if he walked into the den, he would be inviting his own death, but Dante wasn't worried. These weren't highly trained warriors; they were mercenaries, brigands and bandits. He was a Nightingale. They would barely know he was there.

It took him half the night, but as Secunda slipped over the mountains to the west, Dante crept up to the entrance of Swindler's Den. The lone guard outside never saw him as he slipped past into the tunnel.

Inside, two bandits were discussing the wisdom of having the very same Alik'r lairing with them. Creeping forward, Dante listened with half an ear while his eyes swept the cavern.

"How much longer do we have to put up with these guys?" one complained. "They give me the creeps."

"They aren't going to be here much longer," his partner said. "As soon as they find that woman they're looking for, they'll be gone."

"Not too soon for me," the first one said. "They've already run afoul of the Whiterun guards."

"I heard that, too," said the second. "Seems like one of them was stupid enough to get caught."

"Maybe we could tip off the guards," the first one suggested slyly. "Might even be a reward in there somewhere."

"Better not let that Kematu hear you say that," the second one warned. "He scares me more than the others."

While they spoke, Dante peered around the cave. It was irregularly shaped, with part of the wall curving in towards the center of the area before pulling back again, partially dividing the chamber into two sections. He couldn't see much of the far end of the cave. To his right, however, there appeared to be a sort of upper level that went further back into the hillside. Lights and sounds came from that opening.

Feeling this might be a way to avoid a lot of contact with most of the bandits here – after all, it wasn't _his_ job to clean out every den of iniquity – Dante worked his way silently around to the right until he was under the ledge. Silently drinking a potion of invisibility, he hauled himself up, hand over hand, until he reached the top, remaining in a crouch once he had pulled himself over the edge. The two bandits below continued talking as though he had never been there, and Dante smirked in satisfaction.

Moving down the tunnel at the back of the hollowed-out area, he found a ramp that led down into the bowels of the den. Voices came from somewhere up ahead, and he remained in a crouch, creeping slowly forward up the tunnel until it dog-legged to the left, opening into a largish chamber whose lower level was filled with water, but only about waist-high. A wooden ramp led down into the water, and at the back of the chamber, a cascade poured down from somewhere above. Behind that waterfall, Dante could see the gleam of torchlight, telling him there was another exit behind the spray.

Milling around the upper perimeter, no less than a half dozen Alik'r mercenaries were talking, drinking or sharpening their long, curved scimitars. At the back of the cave, one stood apart from the others; he was the only one not wearing a headdress, but he was also the only one with two scimitars strapped to his hips. This had to be Kematu.

Several options played through Dante's head at this point. He knew he could probably steal in and take out one or two – possible three, if he was lucky – before the others would be aware something was wrong. But that wouldn't answer the questions running through his mind since his conversation with Saadia. He could confront Kematu directly, but he had no guarantee the Redguard would be truthful with him. He wouldn't know, of course, until he spoke with the man.

Dante prided himself on being a fairly good judge of character. In his business, he had to be. Many a good deal might be made or lost with an accurate assessment of the client's disposition. He felt he could tell with precision when someone was lying to him.

He decided to take his chances and talk to Kematu first. He rose and stepped into the light.

Several warriors near him started and suddenly drew their curved swords.

Dante tensed, prepared to defend himself. Perhaps he was wrong after all.

"Alik'r, hold!" Kematu cried, and his mercenaries relaxed their guard slightly. The Redguard addressed Dante directly. "You've proven your strength, warrior. Let's avoid any more bloodshed. I think you and I have some things to talk about." Dante realized immediately that Kematu had assumed he had fought his way through the bandits in the outer chambers. That the leader of the Alik'r couldn't conceive of anyone creeping in the back way was a fatal character flaw; one that Dante might be able to use to his advantage.

Kematu beckoned the Breton rogue to come closer. "Stay your hand, warrior!" he warned, noting at once that Dante had not relaxed _his_ guard. "It's no secret why you're here and you have proven your skill in combat. Let us talk a moment, and no one else needs to die. I think we can all profit from the situation in which we find ourselves. My men will not attack you, if you will lower your weapons."

Shrugging, Dante sheathed his daggers. "Very well," he said slowly. "Why don't we start with why you're after this Redguard woman?"

"That's an easy one to answer," Kematu said evenly. "She sold the city out to the Aldmeri Dominion. Were it not for her betrayal, Taneth could have held its ground in the war. The other noble houses discovered her betrayal and she fled. They want her brought back alive. The resistance against the Dominion is alive and well in Hammerfell, and they want justice."

"Interesting," Dante mused. He didn't ask how long ago this 'betrayal' had taken place, nor why it had taken so long for assassins to be sent after Saadia. _Iman,_ he told himself. _Her name is Iman._ The Great War had ended for the Empire in the Year 175 of the Fourth Era, but Hammerfell had fought on against the Dominion alone and unaided for another five years, until the Second Treaty of Stros M'Kai was signed as an acknowledgement that the War had ground to a standstill and neither side could win. That was twenty-four years ago. Saadia was barely thirty, from the looks of her. How could a six-year-old have betrayed her people? "You do know," he said now, "that I've been sent here to kill you."

Kematu seemed unconcerned. "Of course, sent by... what is it that she's calling herself these days? Shazra? Saadia? One of those, correct? Did she appeal to your sense of honor? Your greed? A more... base need, perhaps? It doesn't matter. No doubt she's convinced you that she's the victim. But, do you know why we pursue her?"

"Enlighten me," Dante drawled.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Kematu's brow, but it was quickly suppressed. "'Saadia', as you know her, is wanted by the noble Houses of Taneth for treason," Kematu explained. "We were hired to see her returned to Hammerfell for her crimes. You can help us with that, and make sure no one else gets hurt."

Dante said nothing. He knew what Kematu must think of him; that he was an ordinary mercenary Saadia hired to kill the ones coming after her. What Kematu couldn't know was how much Dante knew of the politics of Hammerfell. The noble houses jockeyed for position there nearly as much as they did in his home Province of High Rock. If it was to be assumed that "all" the noble Houses were after 'Saadia,' there was no doubt in his mind that they were staging a coup against her House, just as surely as the political upheaval in Wayrest had killed his father and half-brothers a decade ago. One day, he promised himself, House Montrose would pay for their crimes.

What he recalled now was a report that had been diverted to him before he became the Emperor's favorite. The report had stated that a noblewoman from one of the Hammerfell noble houses had disappeared. Details were sketchy and questionable, but according to the report, Houses Fada and Tasa claimed she had stolen artifacts that had been heirlooms of their Houses for centuries. Other reports stated the items in question were betrothal gifts she had not returned when the marriages didn't happen. A breech of Redguard etiquette, to be sure, but hardly worth hiring assassins to eliminate her. House Suda had been one of the richest Houses in Hammerfell; a union through marriage would have been highly desirable for either House Fada or House Tasa. That 'Saadia' had rejected both arrangements seemed likely. It appeared that the two rejected Houses were working in tandem, then, to punish her, and take by force what they could not get through negotiations.

Dante knew also that the Redguards had no love for the Dominion, having fought them to a standstill less than a quarter century before. Why then would the Dominion hire Redguard mercenaries to bring this woman to justice? Why not send their own Justiciars? In addition, Redguard mercenaries would have little interest in working for the very faction their country had fought against within living memory. They might be paid warriors and assassins, but they were still Redguard. So Saadia's claim that these were Dominion-paid assassins didn't make sense.

However, Kematu's claim that the city of Taneth could have held out against the Dominion if Saadia hadn't betrayed it was an out-and-out lie, given that Saadia would have been far too young at the time to have done anything that might have been taken seriously. Redguard children could be precocious, but they weren't _that_ mature!

All this went through his mind in a flash. "What would you have me do?" he asked. It never hurt to explore one's options, after all.

Kematu relaxed a bit, sensing a favorable end to his quest. "She trusts you, at least to some extent," he smiled. "She sent you after us and has no reason to think that you'd do anything other than that. Convince her that we'll be coming for her, and she needs to leave. Lead her to the stables outside Whiterun. We'll be waiting to take her into custody. I'll gladly share a portion of the bounty in return for your efforts in seeing proper justice done."

"And she won't be harmed?" Dante inquired. A corner of his mind was amused at Kematu's assumption he could be bought. Well, to be fair, every man had his price, but someone of Kematu's stature could never hope to afford Dante's retainer fee.

A brief flicker went through Kematu's eyes. It was so fast that if he hadn't been watching the man closely, he might have missed it. It was a slight shuttering, as if attempting to prevent the truth from being seen.

"Not on the way back," Kematu replied in a flat voice. "Once she gets there, it's not up to me to decide what's done with her."

Dante nodded. So that was the way it would be, he realized. Saadia – Iman – was doomed the moment he turned her over to them. She would never see Hammerfell again; these men would make certain of that. They were willing to bribe him into betraying her to lead her outside the city where the Whiterun guards would be fewer, and less likely to reach her in time to save her, once Kematu and his men left the stable area with her.

"Well, gentlemen," he sighed, "I must do what's right."

Kematu was still smiling when Dante whirled and sunk his ebony dagger in the Redguard's throat. Leaving it there and drawing his sword – a beautiful ebony blade with a fire enchantment on it that he had named Inferno – Dante cast a paralysis spell at the closest Alik'r warrior to him and invoked Nocturnal's blessing.

Immediately he was wrapped in shadows, and the Alik'r further away lost sight of him.

"Where did he go?" one shouted in dismay. "He was right there!"

"He must have gone into the pool and through the waterfall," another cried. "Alert the robbers!"

Two of the Alik'r headed down the ramp and Dante deduced that the tunnel behind the cascade must lead back into the other area of the caverns he had not explored. Perhaps he should have cleared them out after all. Oh well, there would be time for that soon enough.

The two remaining Alik'r who had not been paralyzed ran down the tunnel Dante had come in by, and he realized he was cut off. Nocturnal's blessing would only last just so long, and he wouldn't be able to call upon it again this day. He would only have his own rather impressive ability to hide in shadows and sneak his way through. Still, the mercenaries were now separated into smaller, more manageable groups. It would be easier to take them out this way. He sheathed Inferno, realizing it wouldn't be needed this time.

He removed his dagger from Kematu's throat and wiped it clean on the Alik'r's vest before shoving it up and under the ribcage of the paralyzed warrior. As this one bled out, he cleaned the blade a second time – this time on the merc's headwrap.

Crouching and moving on silent feet, Dante headed down the tunnel through which he had come, seeing the two Alik'r returning.

"Nothing!" one said in disgust. "It's like he vanished off the face of Nirn!"

"What are we going to do, now Kematu's dead?" the other worried.

"I don't know," said the first. "Go back to Stros M'Kai, maybe?"

"Maybe," the second mumbled, shocked. "I can't believe he's dead! He seemed invincible."

The other said nothing, and the two passed by Dante without noticing him as he pressed himself against the side of the tunnel.

Once they passed, he silently rose behind the last one in line and drew his dagger across the man's throat. It was done so swiftly the merc never had a chance to cry out, and Dante eased him quietly to the ground. The other Alik'r, deep in his own morose thoughts, never noticed, and Dante padded up silently behind him, giving him the same treatment he'd given the first.

 _Four down, two to go,_ he thought with satisfaction. Of course, there were still all the bandits in the other chambers to bypass. _And where there are bandits, there's sure to be treasure,_ he grinned to himself.

Working carefully, chamber by chamber, Dante moved through the den like a ghostly harbinger of death. None saw him coming, and none were left behind. He pocketed the gems and gold he'd found, as well as a few potions and magical items he knew he could sell back in Whiterun. He recalled there seemed to be some sort of general goods store in the market place as he passed through.

It was very early in the morning when he finally returned to the Bannered Mare. He tumbled into his bed and slept until past noon. Entering the common room, he noticed 'Saadia's' absence and remarked on this to Hulda.

"Poor girl is feeling under the weather," the innkeeper said sympathetically. "It's left me a bit short-handed today, but if you need anything, I'll have Olfina bring it to you."

"No, that's not necessary," Dante said. "I'd like to pay for another night, however. I have some business in town, and then I'm leaving early tomorrow morning."

"Sure thing," Hulda beamed. "Would you like me to show you to your room?"

"If it's the same one I slept in last night, then no," he said with a smile full of charm. "I know where it is."

He waited until she was busy with someone else, then slipped into the kitchen and headed up the back stairs to 'Saadia's' room. Tapping lightly, he smiled when it opened a crack, then swung open wider to let him in.

"Have you found out anything about the Alik'r yet?" Iman whispered.

Dante gave her a steady look. "The Alik'r won't trouble you anymore," he told her. "And you weren't completely truthful with me."

"In what way?" she gasped, surprised.

"Nearly all of Hammerfell hates the Dominion," he stated. "So why would anyone there care if you spoke out against the Aldmeri? And why would the Dominion send assassins after you – _Alik'r_ assassins, no less? They would have used their own Justiciars."

Iman shifted uncomfortably and sighed. "I didn't think you'd help me if you thought it was just political infighting," she admitted, hanging her head. "I'm sorry."

Dante leaned forward and tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "Let me give you a bit of advice," he smiled. "Keep your lies simple. Stick to the truth as much as you can, so you never have to remember what you've said. If your lies are mostly true, no one will notice the little falsehoods you weave into them."

Iman gave a tremulous smile. "I'll remember that, if I'm ever called upon to lie again," she said. "Now, I believe I owe you a reward for what you've done."

Dante gave her his best leer. "Bring it to my room tonight," he suggested, before turning and heading downstairs and into the town to conduct his business. _Yes,_ he thought with some satisfaction. _Tonight is shaping up to be a very good night._

The sun had not yet risen when a shifting in the bed next to him awoke Dante.

"Leaving so soon?" he drawled, smiling.

"I have to," Saadia said stretching. Her dusky body glinted in the light of Secunda, streaming through the window, and he took several moments to appreciate her stunning beauty. "Hulda will be awake soon, and I don't want her to see me leaving your room."

"Is there a problem with that?" he frowned.

The Redguard woman quirked her lips. "Not from me," she told him quietly as she gathered her clothes. "And for most of Skyrim, it's something that probably wouldn't turn heads. But Hulda is…well, I guess 'straight-laced' would be a good term. She thinks 'pleasuring each other,' as she calls it, should be reserved for the marriage bed. Olfina and I are not supposed to be… _entertaining_ …the guests."

"I see…" Dante frowned.

"Don't get me wrong," Saadia cautioned him. "I enjoyed our tryst… _very_ much! You're an amazing lover!" She paused and gave him a seductive smile that caused his manhood under the covers to jerk in response. "It's just that…well…Hulda took me in and gave me a place to hide, though she doesn't know that's what I'm doing. But she can be very critical of what she calls 'loose women.' Not too long ago, one of the women in town was discovered dealing in illegal drugs. I always suspected Ysolda was involved something like that. And it was no secret that some of the guards could be seen entering and leaving her house at all hours of the day and night. But until she was arrested and hauled away to Dragonsreach dungeon, Hulda kept her peace. Once the truth came out, Hulda was the most scathing of her critics. That's why I need to go back to my room now."

Dante nodded. From a certain point of view, he supposed, it made sense. He rose from the bed and began searching for his clothes, which had been scattered about in the heat of passion last night. Saadia had already wriggled into her shift, and he paused a moment, distracted by her finer points.

"I hope to see you again, next time I'm in town," Dante smiled, finding her apron under his shirt. He came over and helped her lace up the back of her dress. "You are an amazingly talented woman."

"And you aren't at all what I expected in a Breton," the woman purred over her shoulder. "Most of those I've known are like Belethor."

"Belethor?"

"The sleazy little man who runs the general store here," she explained. "He's always leering after every pretty girl who walks by." She shuddered. "He gives me the creeps!"

She gave him a quick, hard, passionate kiss at the door before opening it. "You'll keep my secret, then?" she confirmed. "And remember that I'm Saadia now, and not Iman?"

"I'll remember," Dante nodded. He had every intention of keeping her secret and gaining her trust. It might be a good idea to have a connection to Hammerfell through House Suda. There might come a day when he'd have to call in that favor. Until then, Saadia was an accomplished lover, well versed in the Dibellan arts. He would definitely look her up again.

He opened the door without a sound and let her slip out, then returned to finish dressing and packing up his bag for the trip north.

It was still well before midday when Dante concluded his business in Whiterun, selling off the loot he'd found in Swindler's Den. He headed out of town and was making his way to the stables, intending to inquire about the purchase of a horse, when a balding man in Nordic carved armor sporting a bristling moustache stopped him.

"Excuse me," the bald man said in his thick Nord accent. "I'm looking for a Breton man named Lance de Fer. Might you be him?"

"Perhaps," Dante said cautiously. "Why are you looking for him?"

"I'm Gregor," the Nord smiled. "I'm Housecarl to the Dragonborn, Marcus of Whiterun, and I've been sent to collect you and bring you to Heljarchen Hall. My lady Tamsyn, the Arch-Mage, gave me a sketch of you, to look out for."

He showed Dante a page of parchment with a charcoal sketch, and he had to admit the likeness was striking. So, the Arch-Mage was an artist, as well? Was there no end to her talents? _At least it's not a bounty poster,_ he thought gratefully. _There are enough of those out there. And they always get my nose wrong._

"I'm Councilor de Fer," he admitted. "Do you have a horse for me?"

Gregor chuckled. "No, sir. We're going in style. I've brought the carriage." He gestured across the road to an open carriage similar to the unmarked one waiting near the stables. The one to which Gregor pointed was embellished with a coat-of-arms on the side: a silhouette of a horned dragon's head, facing forward, in gold against an oval green field.

"May I take your bag, then?" Gregor prompted. Dante hesitated for the barest moment before handing it over. To his credit, Gregor never acknowledged the weight, but hefted it easily into the back of the carriage. "If you'll climb aboard," Gregor continued cheerily, "we'll be off."

"I'll sit up front with you, if that's alright," Dante said. He knew he'd get a better view of the surrounding countryside that way. Years of watching his own back made him cautious.

"I don't mind if you don't," Gregor smiled. "It'll be nice to have some company for a change!"

Dante hid a private smile. The best way to find out about your mark was to get their servants to talk. It wasn't that he intended to rob the Dragonborn – he wasn't stupid – but he wanted to find out as much as he could about the man, to be able to report back to the Emperor his findings on whether he would be a decent successor or not.

Gregor, however, proved to be a difficult nut to crack on that subject. Though he waxed long and loud in his praises of his Thane, and offered several tales of following him into barrows, bandit dens and Dwemer ruins, he was close-mouthed about the Dragonborn as a man.

"You don't have any idea where he came from?" Dante asked ingenuously at one point when Gregor admitted this. The Housecarl seemed completely unconcerned by this oversight. "He's an Imperial, isn't he?"

"Aye," Gregor frowned, "but there are lots of Imperials who were born here in Skyrim, so I can't say for certain if he ever lived in Cyrodiil."

Dante tried another tactic, "What did he do before he learned he was Dragonborn?"

"I wasn't with him then," Gregor answered politely, "so I can't speak to that."

"Did he side with the Empire during the Stormcloak rebellion?"

"I thought everyone knew my Thane was the one who negotiated the peace treaty at High Hrothgar," Gregor remarked, surprised. "Why would he take sides when he was trying to bring about a cease-fire?"

Dante gave it up. He wasn't going to learn anything useful from the Housecarl by direct questioning. No wonder the Dragonborn had hired the man! Ask the servant about his wife, and he would get a warm, dopey look in his eyes, happy to talk at length about her beauty, her spirit, her skill at arms.

"We haven't been married all that long," Gregor said proudly, "but I feel as if I've known Lydia all my life."

"I understand the Arch-Mage is…in a family way?" the Breton rogue probed delicately. "She mentioned this to me in her letter."

"Aye," Gregor grinned. "It will be good to have young ones growing up at Heljarchen. The place was built by my Thane because of his large family. The other children don't get to visit as often, but there will be room for them when they do."

"Other children?" Dante asked. He vaguely remembered the Arch-Mage mentioning other children at home.

Gregor then launched into a description of each of the Dragonborn's adopted children, from the youngest, Lucia – who still lived at home – to the oldest, Blaise, who was working for the blacksmith in Riften.

"A blacksmith?" Dante blinked in surprise. "The son of the Dragonborn is a mere blacksmith's apprentice?"

Gregor frowned as he smacked the reins against the sorrel mare's hips. "Gee up there, Sadie!" he called, and the horse obliged by quickening her steps for the next quarter-mile before slipping back into her steady plod. "My Thane lives a quiet life," he finally answered. "He doesn't believe in all the frills and frippery that usually go with a title. He's a simple man with simple tastes."

"The man who destroyed Alduin the World-Eater and killed a vampire lord intent on blotting out the sun lives a quiet life," Dante remarked with some irony.

Gregor shrugged. "He did those things because he's the Dragonborn," the Housecarl said loyally. "He's the only one who could have done them. It doesn't mean he wanted that kind of life. When he's not being asked to step in and help put down bandits, or clear out a cave full of Falmer, he prefers to stay quietly at home with his family."

Dante allowed a private smile. He just learned much more about his target by indirect questioning, rather than coming right out and asking. He reflected on the irony: that the Dragonborn might be the hero of Skyrim – and indeed, of Tamriel itself – but he was an intensely private man who did not like to call attention to himself. This was in opposition to the information he had liberated from a Thalmor-held Ayleid ruin which indicated that the Dragonborn was a direct threat to the future of the Dominion itself. He wondered if 'Marcus of Whiterun' knew the extent to which the Aldmeri Dominion wanted him dead.

Given the information he had gained so far, he compared what he had learned of the man with what passed for public knowledge of the Dragonborn. He was held in high regard by most of the Jarls of Skyrim and seemed to be in confidence with most of them. Furthermore, if rumors were to be believed, he had struck a significant blow against the Thalmor by planting _something_ within their Embassy in Haafingar that was eating the faction from within.

It was no secret that the Summerset Isles were in turmoil. The Isle of Artaeum had vanished once again. The Psijic Monks often withdrew from the world when they disagreed with the ruling bodies of the Summerset Isles. In this time and place, that ruling body was the Aldmeri Dominion. To be exact, this was the _Third_ Aldmeri Dominion, and if history was to be believed, they were but a shadow of the glory that had been the First.

It had been the fringe faction known as the Thalmor that claimed victory during the Oblivion Crisis, leading all to believe they had been responsible for closing the Oblivion gates and defeating Mehrunes Dagon in his attempt to invade Tamriel. Though most knew this to be false, the Empire was too shattered and disorganized after the death of the last Septim heir to dispute the claims. Those who spoke out against the Dominion were hunted down and not see again. In time, most learned to accept the lie, because it was easier than to fight it.

Now, however, it seemed as if even the Thalmor were struggling to retain their hold on Tamriel. Dante had received reports out of Valenwood that indicated the rebellion there was gaining a foothold. Not all Bosmer enjoyed the occupation of the Dominion. There were even rumors – which Dante was desperately tracking down – that indicated an heir to the throne of Falinesti might have escaped the wrath of the Dominion. If proved true, he or she was in grave danger, and Dante had sent his second-in-command, Reydin Glane, down to the Bosmer's home province to see what could be discovered. The latest reports were in his bag in the wagon behind him.

Minnow was holding down the fort at home, and he was pleased with the reports he had received so far. Though some of his organization left when the traditional thieving jobs "dried up," – Garibaldi included, and Dante didn't regret that one bit – many stayed, finding the thrill of stealing from the Dominion to be more than adequate compensation – and much more lucrative – than stealing from some petty nobles in the far-flung corners of Cyrodiil.

His fellow Nightingale had also successfully tracked down Janus, the Imperial who had betrayed them at Vilverin by abandoning them to the Thalmor. Needless to say, Janus' body would never be found. Of the two team members who had been caught in the fire set by Dominion operatives, only Da'zhir had survived, though badly burned. There were large patches of his fur that would probably never grow back. He had become quieter, more introspective, but had insisted on remaining with the organization when he learned the new direction it would be taking.

"This one would like very much to give payback to the Thalmor," the Khajiit insisted. His twin, Da'zhar, had agreed. Dante had sent them into Elsweyr to learn what they could of Dominion operations there, and the reports – also in his bag – were encouraging.

Though the Mane who lived nearly one hundred years ago had submitted to an alliance with the Aldmeri Dominion in Year 115, with the dissolution of the Elsweyr Confederacy following the dreaded Void Nights, there had been rising dissatisfaction over the last century among the population at the treatment received by the Dominion. Many Khajiit were unhappy about their status as second-class citizens in their own country. Recently, at the Palace of the Mane in Torval, there had been a steady stream of petitioners seeking audience with the current Mane to address their grievances with their situation. There were even rumors that the Mane himself was considering severing ties with the Dominion, though they were still only rumors, and unsubstantiated.

All this information was secured safely within the Guild Headquarters in the Ayleid ruins beneath the Imperial City. He had not shared it with the Emperor, knowing the questions that would follow and not caring to explain himself at this time. He couldn't explain why, but he was becoming quite fond of Titus Mead the Second. There was a keen mind and a wide streak of guile within the debilitated husk of the old Imperial, and Dante found himself appreciating the intricate diplomatic dance the Emperor had been forced to undertake to keep the Aldmeri Dominion from taking over the Empire following the defeat after the Great War. Few people understood exactly what Titus Mead had done, in agreeing to the White Gold Concordat; few knew how much they owed the man for their very lives. Had he not "bent the knee," as some criticized, and retained his hold on the few remaining Provinces of the Empire, the Thalmor would eventually have swept across Tamriel, and the Dominion objective of racial purification would already have begun. By signing the Concordat, and agreeing to the crushing terms of that edict, he had bought some time to attempt to restore some of the strength of the failing Empire. What he didn't know – could never know – was whether it would be enough, and whether it would be in time.

The carriage had pulled off the main road while Dante considered the events that had brought him to this point. He understood _why_ Titus Mead would want to choose a successor, and he even understood why someone of the stature of the Dragonborn would be at the top of the list. To the Emperor, only someone like the hero of Tamriel could keep the Dominion at bay and restore the glory of the Empire.

But he wanted that job for himself, and he resented the Dragonborn for being the first choice.

They were heading up a long, gradual hill now, passing by a farm whose windmill turned lazily in the breeze that swept down the tundra. It brought a chill with it, and Dante shivered a little inside his state robes. He felt vulnerable. He would have preferred to wear his armor, as he had done while creeping through Swindler's Den, but this was official business, and he was here as a representative of Titus Mead the Second, so state robes were expected. It didn't mean he hadn't taken precautions. Under the robe he wore a close-fitting tunic of boiled leather, well-worn and travel-stained. It wouldn't offer much protection, but it was better than nothing.

After another mile or so a building loomed on the horizon, situated at the top of the rise. Sturdy and strong, built of massive logs and hewn stone, Heljarchen Hall gleamed against the darkness of the pine trees that framed it. To the west, the land continued to rise. To the east, it fell away, rolling easily down to thicker, forested areas. He could see the road they had left behind winding its way to points unknown. Behind him, as he twisted around, the sweeping vista of the tundra sprawled down past the farm they had passed earlier. In the distance, he could still see the city of Whiterun, with Dragonsreach on the knob of granite jutting from the plains. Beyond that rose the majestic, glowering peak they called the Throat of the World.

He had to admit it, it was a magnificent view, and he was duly impressed.

Gregor brought the carriage to a halt and set the brake, jumping down easily for a man as heavily armored as he was. He paused briefly, as if to offer Dante assistance in alighting, but the Breton man waved him off and leaped nimbly to the ground. Gregor shrugged and went around the back of the wagon to retrieve Dante's bag.

The door to Heljarchen Hall opened, and a man and woman stepped out to greet them, followed by a young, dark-haired girl with a mastiff dog at her heels.

The woman, he knew, was the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, known simply as Tamsyn. She was, he judged, about mid-way through her term but carried herself well. It was the man beside her that drew his attention.

Tall, imposing, with dark brown hair swept back from his face and secured by a simple leather thong at the nape of his neck. A single silver stud earring gleamed in his left ear. Steel grey eyes swept over Dante, appraising him, taking his measure. The Dragonborn's finely-chiseled features were clearly Imperial, though he seemed taller and leaner than the soft diplomats Dante knew back at court. He towered over the Breton man, who was by no means diminutive in stature. A polite smile of greeting was fixed on his lips, but those piercing grey eyes held caution.

"Councilor de Fer," the Arch-Mage smiled warmly, with a private quirk of her lips. She knew his true identity. "Welcome to Heljarchen Hall!"

Dressed in a loose-fitting woolen robe of a deep forest green, embroidered at the collar, hem and cuffs, the Arch-Mage wore a circlet of silver and moonstone in her deep auburn hair, from which one lock of pure white attempted to escape. A simple band of gold on her left hand, matched by a similar one on her husband's, indicated her marriage to the Dragonborn, and another ring of plain, unadorned silver rested on her right ring finger. A silver necklace set with a sapphire and a pair of simple silver stud earrings were the only other jewelry she wore. As Dante drew nearer, however, he could sense the magic that radiated from them.

"Please allow me to introduce you to my husband, Marcus," Tamsyn insisted.

"Tamsyn has told me much about you, Councilor," the Dragonborn rumbled in his deep voice.

"Nothing good, I hope?" Dante joked.

"Nope," the Imperial said, a slight lift at the corner of his mouth betraying his amusement. "Nothing good at all. This is my daughter, Lucia," he added, before Dante could respond. "And this is Barbas." He patted the dog's head, who lolled out his tongue.

"I'm very pleased to meet you," Lucia said shyly, dropping a courtesy.

" _Likewise, I'm sure,"_ said Barbas.

Dante blinked, glancing around furtively. "Uhh…"

"Lucia!" the Arch-Mage scolded, though she failed at keeping a straight face. "I thought we agreed—"

"It's not my fault, Mama!" the girl protested.

"Barbas," the Dragonborn rumbled.

" _Hey, he might as well know now, rather than later, right?"_ Barbas said, shaking himself all around in what passed for a shrug. _"I mean, it's not like you're tryin' t' hide anyt'ing from him, right?"_

Dante cleared his throat. "Do I want to know…?"

Tamsyn laughed. "Come inside, out of the cold," she invited, stepping aside to let him enter. "We'll explain everything once you get settled."

Inside Heljarchen was as warm and comfortable as anyplace in the Imperial City, Ayleid ruins notwithstanding. The entryway was lined with display cases, weapon plaques and armored mannequins. The Great Hall beyond this was expansive, with a vaulted ceiling rising past a second floor above. At the far end a fireplace blazed, generating enough heat to keep the entire room comfortable. Rugs from Morrowind were scattered around the floors, and a long table carved from birch wood was set up in the middle of the room. Closer to the fireplace, chairs had been set at either side to allow one to sit and enjoy the warmth.

To either side of the Great Hall were flights of stairs leading up. At the base of each were doors leading into other rooms, and Dante could see additional doors behind the stairs on either side. At the back of the Hall, again at either side, arched openings led to possible servants' quarters, or perhaps a kitchen area. From his vantage point on the first floor, he couldn't see much of the second, but it was in this direction that Tamsyn led him.

"Your room is up here," she explained, and Dante followed, with her husband and the Housecarl in tow.

At the top of the stairs, a dark-haired woman with a patch over one eye came around the corner.

"Everything is ready, my lady," she smiled.

"This is Lydia, our Steward," Tamsyn introduced. "Gregor is her husband."

"I'm honored to make your acquaintance, Councilor," Lydia beamed. "We don't get visitors from Cyrodiil here, so you're the first."

"If you need anything at all," Tamsyn smiled, "just let Lydia know."

Dante acknowledged this with a nod, and the Arch-Mage led him down a short hallway to the right and opened the first door on her left.

"This will be your room," she smiled as Gregor placed his pack on a nearby chair. "We'll let you get settled in and rest before the evening meal. I hope you like venison."

"It's been a while since I've had it," Dante admitted. "The Imperial Court tends to eat a lot of beef. But I've always liked venison."

"Then you'll love what Tamsyn does with it," the Dragonborn smiled. "She's a regular Gourmet!"

Dante lifted an eyebrow. "You do your own cooking?" he asked. "You don't have a chef?"

Tamsyn shrugged. "We're out here in the sticks," she explained. "There's really only the five of us here. Six, if you count Barbas, but he doesn't eat. When I'm home, I do the cooking because I like to. When I'm away, Lydia cooks. And we're both teaching Lucia."

Dante nodded cautiously. The comment about the talking dog unnerved him. A dog that didn't eat?

"We'll let you get settled," Tamsyn said again, sweeping everyone out of the room ahead of her. "Dinner is at six. Come down when you're ready." She closed the door behind her.

Alone for now, Dante shook his head. There was quite a lot here that needed explaining. A man as renown as the Dragonborn could have had an army of people working for him; he could have maintained a large, richly appointed home in any of the major cities in Skyrim. Yet he chose to live simply, in a remote part of the country, with less than a handful of servants to attend to his needs.

He looked around the room. Though it was not lacking in amenities, the walls were simple stone and plaster, not marble or polished granite. The carpets beneath his feet were from Hammerfell; the ones downstairs were from Morrowind; but none were antiques. The furnishings were sturdy and comfortable, but there was nothing here to indicate wealth, except for the size of the home.

He went to the window and noted that the glass was not artisan, such as the leaded glasses of High Rock, or stained glasses of the Imperial City. It was thick but plain, much like the people of Skyrim, he thought sardonically. It served a purpose, a function, but did not pretend to offer aesthetics to the room.

The view from his room, however, was quite pleasing. Above the pine trees he saw rolling hills leading away to the north. A wolf skulked into view about a mile away, and he realized exactly how far from civilization he truly was. In all his thirty years, he had never spent much time outside a city. Growing up in Wayrest and living the rest of his life in the Imperial City itself as a thief and merchant, he seldom had need to go out into the wild if he could get some enthusiastic mercenary or subordinate thief to do it for him. It wasn't that he had no experience at all; he had explored his share of caves and ruins. It was simply that he preferred people and buildings around him to wide open spaces. There were more opportunities for wealth in the big cities.

And yet, here he was, meeting a man who was already a legend – a man hand-picked to be the Emperor's heir – while he had skulked in the shadows, much like the wolf outside his window, hoping to grasp his fortune from a world that had no intention of just handing it over. He sighed. What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Dante and Marcus set out to find the pieces of Mehrunes' Razor, and Dante learns that the Dragonborn is not to be underestimated.]_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Dinner had been concluded, and Dante couldn't remember eating a finer meal in a long time. The chefs at court in the White Gold Tower tended to over-season everything, and while he had long ago taught himself to cook, he kept mainly to recipes that required a minimum amount of ingredients and preparation, in case he was called away at a moment's notice. Even in his Guild's headquarters, in the Ayleid ruins beneath the Imperial City, only one or two of his 'little family' bothered to cook anything.

"You didn't lie," he told the Dragonborn. "That venison roast was excellent!"

Marcus merely gave a smug smile while Tamsyn beamed. "I'm so glad you liked it!" she enthused. "Cooking it low and slow is the key."

"I have a very fine bottle of Cyrodiilic Brandy in the drawing room," Marcus offered, "if you'd like to sample some of it."

"I would indeed," Dante nodded, and while Lydia and Gregor cleared away and Lucia helped with the dishes, Marcus and Tamsyn led their guest to a room off the main hall at the front of the house. The door was closed, and Tamsyn threw a Muffle spell at it. Barbas was lying in front of the fire and thumped his tail once by way of greeting.

"Just in case Lucia gets nosy," she explained. "I don't like hiding what we're doing, but she's too young to know everything. We have enemies that would love to get to us through our children."

Marcus gave a rumble deep in his chest. The look on his face was grim.

"That has been a problem?" Dante inquired.

"Just once," Marcus bit out shortly as he retrieved a bottle from a sideboard and poured two glasses. "The Thalmor haven't tried it again – _yet."_

"And we aren't going to give them the chance," Tamsyn said. "Blaise, Sofie and Alesan are wise enough to keep their mouths shut, but Lucia –" Here she gave an indulgent chuckle. "Lucia has never known a stranger. She's shy at first, but get her talking and she will babble on for hours."

Marcus presented a glass to Dante and seated himself across from the Breton. The Guildmaster raised his glass, but paused. "Arch-Mage, aren't you…?"

"No," she shook her head firmly. "Not while I'm pregnant." She gestured at her belly. "It's not good for the baby," she finished.

"Indeed?" Dante blinked. "I never knew that."

"It can be very detrimental," Tamsyn said firmly. "I'll stick with fruit juice for now, thank you." She poured herself a small glass of dark red juice from a container on the table by her side.

"Why don't you tell us why you're here, Councilor?" Marcus invited. He gave the man the benefit of his public title, but privately still mistrusted the thief under his roof.

"I'm here, as I believe I stated in my letter, to call in a debt," Dante said smoothly. "As your wife is already aware, and I'm sure you are as well, I helped her to escape from the Thalmor last year. The only thing I ask for in return is assistance in acquiring a certain Daedric artifact I learned about from my research."

"Tamsyn told me about that," Marcus said. "Mehrunes' Razor; the dagger of the Daedric Prince of Destruction. Why would you want that? And think very carefully before you answer," he warned.

"I'm not planning on turning into a Daedra worshipper, if that's what you mean," Dante frowned. "I couldn't care less about the Daedra than I do right now. That the Razor was forged by Mehrunes Dagon himself is, perhaps, not the best recommendation for wanting it." He shook his head. "No, my interest in the artifact is two-fold: first, it's supposed to be uncannily keen. It's rumored to never lose its edge. It's also rumored to be able to kill one's enemies with a single strike. As a thief and a rogue—" he didn't even attempt to hide his nature, "—that appeals to me."

"And the second reason?" Marcus rumbled, not convinced he should help.

"Mehrunes' Razor was said to be instrumental in helping the Mythic Dawn take out the Septim Empire," Dante said. "Now, I know I'm a thief, but I'm no murderer. It seems to me that killing Titus Mede the Second at this time, as Amaund Motierre attempted to do – at the Dominion's urging, by the way – would be a very bad idea. And I have my own reasons for wanting to keep the Emperor alive."

Both the Dragonborn and his wife exchanged looks. Marcus could guess what was going through Tamsyn's mind. This was, after all, the Grey Fox sitting in their presence, enjoying their hospitality. Tamsyn had already filled him in on what had occurred in the Riften Thieves' Guild with Mercer Frey. The former Guildmaster had murdered his predecessor and attempted one last great heist that would set him up for life. He might have succeeded, had Tamsyn not intervened. It didn't take a great stretch of imagination to know what heist Dante had in mind. The only difference, by his own admission, was that he was unwilling to commit murder to get it. The question remained, was this a good idea, and should they turn a blind eye? Would the Empire be better off with a thief and rogue on the Ruby Throne, or with whomever the Aldmeri Dominion decided to install? Marcus knew the answer to that question, and chafed at not having a better option.

"I have some disturbing reports here," Dante continued, patting the dossier with him, "that would seem to indicate that interest in the Mythic Dawn is on the rise."

"What reports?" Tamsyn asked, instantly alert.

Dante opened the dossier and pulled out several parchments. "This one," he showed them, "mentioned a 'Museum to the Mythic Dawn' opening up in Dawnstar. If I'm not mistaken, that's not that far from here."

"It's practically in our back yard," Marcus agreed, perusing the flyer.

"I know about this," Tamsyn said. "What makes you think Silas Vesuius wants to bring back the Mythic Dawn?"

Dante paused and stared at her. "I didn't tell you his name," he frowned. "How could you…?"

Tamsyn rolled her eyes. "I told you before, Master Greyshadow," she sighed in frustration. "I'm a Seer. I know things, okay?"

"Alright, then," Dante replied suavely, "if you 'know things,' why don't you tell me why Vesuius would want to bring back the Mythic Dawn?"

She glared at him, and Marcus half expected her to exclaim, as she had done many times before, that it 'didn't work like that.' This time, however, she surprised him.

"Vesuius' ancestors were members," she stated. "He would tell you that one of his closer ancestors was hand-picked to wield Mehrunes' Razor to assassinate Uriel Septim the Seventh. He would also tell you, if you ask him, that all his life he's felt a strange destiny awaited him, and that he thinks this is it. Honestly, I don't think he means any ill from it. I think he's just caught up in the glory of a misguided group of assassins who sought change on their terms. Having said that, he's a weak man, easily cowed and easily manipulated. If the Dominion is aware that he knows where all the pieces of the Razor are, in addition as to how to put it all together again, they might find it interesting enough to send someone to 'guide' him into the actions they want to see happen, like the premature death of Titus Mede the Second."

Dante stared at her for a long moment before carefully tearing the rest of his report in half.

"I guess I don't need this, then," he said with a self-deprecating smile.

" _You might,"_ Barbas replied, lolling out his tongue. _"I wouldn't huck 'em in da fire just yet."_

Dante started. He'd forgotten about the dog for the moment. "How…?" he managed to get out.

Marcus laughed. "He takes some getting used to," the Dragonborn replied. "Maybe a formal introduction will help. Councilor de Fer, this is Barbas, Daedric dog and companion to Clavicus Vile, who is currently out of favor."

" _You don't need t' call 'im by dat alias,"_ Barbas complained. _"I'm not stupid. I know who he is."_

"Sorry, Barbas," Marcus apologized with sincerity. "Keeping up pretenses in private helps prevent mistakes in public."

" _I get it,"_ the dog woofed. _"I'm sorry I gave ya a toin before,"_ he said to Dante. _"I forget sometimes dat most people here have already accepted me as da Dragonborn's dog."_

"I'll admit I've never met a Daedric dog before," Dante marveled, his mind already whirling with the possibilities this presented. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

" _Likewise,"_ Barbas barked, wagging his tail. He settled back down by the fire, but didn't go back to sleep, and Dante realized it was no accident that Barbas had been allowed to stay in the room. Had his information been sensitive, and the dog unaware of the Dragonborn's agenda, he would have been shooed from the study. Clearly, the Daedric dog was in their confidence.

"Why don't you tell us what else you've learned," Tamsyn invited. She made a pass with her hands over the torn pages, which mended themselves back together instantly. She handed them back to him with a smile. "You might have information I wasn't able to See."

This suited Dante, and he relayed the information Reydin Glane had sent back from Valenwood.

"An heir to Valenwood?" Marcus wondered. "I thought the Thalmor stamped them out pretty thoroughly."

"That's what they wanted us to think," Dante nodded. "But Reydin tells me that one of the children escaped at that time. Mind you, this was almost two-hundred years ago, a couple of decades after the Oblivion Crisis, when the Thalmor swept into Valenwood and overthrew the tribal government."

"That would make this heir a couple centuries old," Marcus mused.

" _Dat would make 'im_ really _old,"_ Barbas put in. _"Bosmer don't live as long as dere Altmer cousins."_

"The heir could have been a female, too," Tamsyn added. "Reydin's report doesn't say."

"I don't think he knows yet," Dante admitted. "He was still trying to run down leads when he sent me this."

"Is there someplace safe where you could take the heir, to protect him or her from the Thalmor?" Tamsyn asked.

"I have resources," Dante assured her. "Depending on whom we find – if we do before the Thalmor – there are places we can hide the heir where he or she won't be found until it's time to put them in charge."

"And what if this heir is completely incompetent?" Marcus argued. "We'd be worse off than before if they don't know a thing about running a country."

"There's also a possibility that the heir might sympathize with the Dominion," Tamsyn added. "Unlikely, if they knew the Thalmor were responsible for wiping out their family, but it _is_ possible. Contacting and confiding in them could compromise our other operations."

"Let me worry about that," Dante said. "The main thing right now is to run down those rumors to see if there's any truth to them."

"What else have you learned?" Marcus asked.

"My agents in Elsweyr have informed me that some of the population there are disgruntled about the ties to the Dominion maintained by the Mane."

The Dragonborn looked puzzled. "I'm a bit lax on Khajiiti government," Marcus admitted. "What's the Mane?"

Dante gave a slight smile. "The Mane is a who, not a what," he explained. "The Mane is the ruler in Elsweyr. He is a unique Khajiit, born under a very specific set of moon phases and circumstances. It is said that there is only ever one Mane alive at one time, and some Khajiit believe that he is the same soul reborn again and again. Having said that, there are also stories of there being more than one Mane born in a generation, and the two fight it out for supremacy. At this point in time, we're fairly certain there is only one Mane in charge."

"And this Mane is aligned with the Dominion, you said?" Tamsyn asked.

The Breton rogue shrugged. "Loosely," he replied. "After the Oblivion Crisis, the Empire's hold on the territory known as Elsweyr was compromised, due to the lack of a successor to the Ruby Throne. The Khajiit took advantage of this and seceded from the Empire. They tried their own form of government for a time. Then the Void Nights occurred, when the moons of Nirn completely vanished."

"I remember reading about that," Marcus said. "I have a book called _The Great War_ which touched upon that subject."

Dante made a mental note regarding the Dragonborn's intellect. _The Great War_ was no simple child's novel. That the Dragonborn had read the book indicated a mind behind his warrior's appearance.

"I've read that book as well," Dante said now. "So you'll understand how important the moons are to Khajiit society. And how grateful they were to the Aldmeri Dominion when the Thalmor took credit for restoring the moons to the skies. They allowed themselves to become a Protectorate of the Dominion."

"Except that now life under Thalmor supervision isn't sitting so well with some of them," Marcus nodded.

"Has the Mane given any indication of wanting to separate from the Dominion?" Tamsyn asked.

"No," the Breton man replied. "Nor is he likely to. It would take a coup of the significance of the one that put his predecessor on the throne to force Elsweyr to switch sides."

"Even though the Altmer are more than willing to sacrifice thousands of Khajiit lives on the front lines of a pitched battle?" Tamsyn brooded.

Dante shrugged. "Even so. You have to understand the mind of the Khajiit. Though they are mostly regarded by humans with mistrust and suspicion, the Altmer have flattered and supported them, and they are unwavering in their loyalty to the faction that saved them from the Void Nights."

"But you said some aren't happy," Marcus pointed out. "Are they unhappy enough to demand change?"

"Possibly," the Guildmaster mused. "But it would take a larger percentage of the population than my agents were able to sound out. As it stands right now, we cannot count on swaying Elsweyr to our side."

"Drat!" Tamsyn frowned. "I was hoping we could make them see sense. We _need_ to bring those other Provinces back into the Empire. Right now, we only have Cyrodiil, Skyrim and High Rock."

"And the Dominion has their home base of the Summerset Isles, as well as Elsweyr and Valenwood," Marcus added.

"What about Morrowind?" Dante asked.

Marcus shook his head.

"We can't count on their help," the Dragonborn answered. "At least, not at the moment. They feel the Empire threw them under the carriage during the Oblivion Crisis, leaving them to their own fate when all the gates opened. Black Marsh is pretty much of the same opinion. And Hammerfell certainly won't help. They suffered the most at the end of the Great War."

Dante thought of Saadia and felt a warming in his lower regions. "I wouldn't rule Hammerfell out just yet," he said, stroking the beard on his chin thoughtfully. "They hate the Dominion with a passion that's almost holy. They might agree to help in our time of need."

"We'd really have to offer them something they want badly enough to come back into the Empire," Marcus pointed out. "And since we haven't spoken with the Emperor about all of this yet, the point is moot."

"Is that everything?" Tamsyn asked.

"Not quite," Dante said, pulling out a single piece of parchment from his dossier. "I came across this in an Ayleid ruin used by the Dominion."

"What is it?" Marcus asked, taking the paper and reading it. "Aetherium?" he queried. "What's that?"

"I have no idea," the Breton rogue answered honestly. "But it seemed important enough to the Thalmor to send out small cadres of Justiciars to look for it."

"Oh, my various gods," Tamsyn breathed faintly. "We can't let them have that!"

Both men turned to look at her suspiciously.

"Arch-Mage?"

"Tamsyn?"

She threw them a glare of pure irritation. "Oh, don't look at me like that!" she exclaimed. "Of _course_ I know what they're after!"

"I would really love to know how you know these things," Dante marveled. "You wouldn't happen to know how to predict dice outcomes or the turn of a card, would you?" He subsided as she glowered at him. "No, I guess you wouldn't give up that information, would you?"

"Tell us about aetherium, sweetheart," Marcus encouraged.

The term of endearment mollified the Arch-Mage, and she regained her composure.

"Aetherium is a very rare, very special luminescent mineral mined by the Dwemer ages ago," she explained. "It was reputed to have a strong magical aura, and some scholars believe it may have fallen from Aetherius itself. I have a book about it, called _The Aetherium Wars,_ but I think I left it in my quarters at the College."

"And what makes this mineral so special?" Dante inquired.

"Well," Tamsyn said, "the fact that anything made with it was imbued with incredible power from the get-go was one reason. But it was such a hard metal to work with that conventional methods were unsuccessful. The Dwemer were required to build a very special forge just to create things from it."

"Where is the forge?" Marcus asked.

A strange look swept across the Arch-Mage's face. "It was lost to the ages," she replied, not looking at her husband. She didn't fool him. He was well aware that she knew exactly where the forge was but was choosing not to reveal it at this time. "Does that paper give any indication if the Dominion knows?" she asked.

Dante shook his head. "No," he replied, having seen the look but not understanding its nature. All he knew for certain was that the Arch-Mage was hiding something. "They apparently have no idea if this is real or simply a myth. The fact that they've taken it seriously enough to send people out looking for it, however, is always a cause for concern. If this is something that could be used against the Alliance, it stands to reason that it would be in our best interests to find it first."

"I don't think you have the time for that right now," Tamsyn replied. "Your first priority was to find Mehrunes' Razor. Or has that changed?"

He was being side-tracked, Dante knew. Clearly, the Arch-Mage knew more than she was letting on. The only possible reason for this was that she wanted the Alliance to be the ones to find this 'Aetherium Forge,' and not the representative of Emperor Titus Mede the Second. It rankled that she still didn't trust him, but he supposed that as long as the Alliance was aware of this situation, it didn't matter, as long as it was kept out of Dominion hands.

"My goal for this trip hasn't changed," he said now, and was pleased to be able to keep his tone even. "This Forge, if it exists, can wait. Even the Dominion isn't sure on that point. Right now, it's more important to me to keep them from acquiring the Razor."

Tamsyn seemed to relax. "Good," she smiled. "Then perhaps I can give you a brief summary of what to expect on this trip of yours. You'll need to head to Dawnstar first and talk to Silas Vesuius. He will tell you where to find the other pieces. Once you have them all, you'll need to take them back to him."

"Not a chance," Dante scowled. "I'm not going to traipse all over Skyrim finding the damned thing only to give it back to him."

Tamsyn glared at him. "And you'll do _what_ with it, Master Greyshadow?"

"I'll reforge it myself," he declared.

To her credit, she didn't mock him for his ingenuousness. "You can't," she said flatly. "It's a Daedric artifact. It was created by Mehrunes Dagon himself, and _only_ Mehrunes Dagon can put it back together. You have to take it back to Silas and let _him_ take it to Dagon to be reforged. After that…" She paused, and another strange look passed through her eyes. "After that, you'll have to decide the best way to get the Razor back from him."

" _I'd use extreme caution where Dagon is consoined,"_ Barbas cautioned them. _"His domain is destruction an' change t'rough dominance. Only a strong poi'son can hold dere own against him."_

"How are you at riding, Master Greyshadow?" Marcus asked, changing the subject.

"I prefer it to a carriage," Dante replied stiffly, still stung by the Arch-Mage's gentle reproof.

"Good," the Dragonborn nodded. "I'll have Gregor get a couple of horses ready for us tomorrow morning. We can head up to Dawnstar just after breakfast." He glanced at the candle on the mantle. "It's getting late. We should probably turn in."

He assisted Tamsyn in rising from her chair and escorted them both from the parlor. Barbas looked up and rose to pad silently behind them.

" _Lucia's probably already in bed,"_ he stated. _"T'ink I'll head on up for da night. Pleasant dreams, everyone!"_ He trotted over to the stairs and made his way up to the second floor, disappearing into the darkness.

Tamsyn offered Dante a candle in a holder to light his way upstairs.

"No need, Arch-Mage, thank you," he dismissed, as politely as he could. He threw off a Candlelight spell.

Tamsyn allowed a brief smile. "I wasn't sure how much magic you knew or used," she replied.

"I don't do much Conjuration," he admitted. "I know enough of most of the other Schools to get by, but I'm a Master at Illusion."

Tamsyn laughed outright. _"That_ doesn't surprise me, Councilor!" She and Marcus inclined their heads towards him. "Sleep well, Councilor," she bade him. "We'll see you at breakfast."

Marcus led his wife away to their suite of rooms that lay just off the main hall to the left behind the stairs while Dante made his way upstairs and entered his room. He had spent the time before dinner unpacking and placing his few personal belongings in the available chests and wardrobes. Stripping off his State robes and shedding the leather cuirass he wore under it, he filled the washbasin with water from the pitcher on the nightstand, and was pleasantly surprised to find it steaming. Examination of the inside of the pitcher revealed a glowing fire rune on the bottom, keeping the water piping hot.

 _Ingenious!_ he thought. _I never imagined using fire runes that way. I wonder what keeps it from exploding?_ He made a mental note to ask Tamsyn about it in the morning. It occurred to him as well that it would be foolish to underestimate the abilities of the Arch-Mage.

He found a similar rune under the bed, radiating heat but not combusting anything above it, and gave a sigh of satisfaction when he crawled under covers already warmed without the use of a coal-filled bedpan.

After everything he had learned this evening, it was tempting to lay awake and go over it all again in his mind, but the long day of travel, the good food and the warm bed took their toll on him, and he was asleep in minutes.

* * *

Dante awoke much earlier than he anticipated. The sun was barely up above the horizon, but he was as rested as if he'd slept the hourglass around. He dressed quickly in his Nightingale's armor, but left the hood to hang down his back, where it would be easy enough to pull it up.

He repacked his haversack with the essentials he would need for an extended trip and headed down the stairs. He knew it was probably too early for breakfast, and that the Dragonborn and his family would probably not be awake yet, but he was a patient man, and he had noticed a wall neatly packed with books in the parlor the night before.

The sound of a lute drifted up from below. Soft and low, as if the player wished not to wake the household, it was a sadly sweet melody Dante had never heard before. Moving silently, he glided down the remaining stairs and turned the corner into the Great Hall. He wasn't sure what he expected, but it was not the image of the Dragonborn, seated by the fire, quietly strumming a lute. Dante listened for several minutes, impressed with the fingering and fretwork the Hero of Skyrim displayed.

 _Who knew?_ he smiled to himself. Once again, he revised his opinion of the man who gave the outward appearance of a skilled warrior with not much going on in his head. He was beginning to realize it might be very inadvisable to underestimate the Dragonborn.

He deliberately scuffed his heel on the floor to make the man aware of his presence.

Marcus heard the noise and set his lute down immediately.

"No, please go on," Dante requested. "You play beautifully, and I've never heard that song before."

"I'd be surprised if you had," Marcus answered politely. "It's a song I knew before I came to Skyrim."

"Are there words to it?" the Breton man inquired.

Marcus hesitated, uncomfortable. "I'm not really used to performing outside my family," he told Dante. "That's really more Lucia's area of expertise than mine. I just teach her the songs I know."

"I would really like to hear it," Dante pressed.

Again, Marcus hesitated before appearing to make up his mind. "I guess it won't hurt anything if I do," he finally replied. Picking up his lute, he strummed a few chords and cleared his throat before singing softly, in his deep baritone voice.

 _"Would you know my name_

 _If I saw you in heaven?_

 _Would it be the same,_

 _If I saw you in heaven?_

 _I must be strong and carry on_

 _'Cause I know I don't belong here in heaven."_

As Dante listened he watched the Dragonborn's face carefully. Though he knew the man had a home and family, the song spoke of inconceivable loss.

" _Would you hold my hand_

 _If I saw you in heaven?_

 _Would you help me stand_

 _If I saw you in heaven?_

 _I'll find my way through night and day_

 _'Cause I know I just can't stay here in heaven."_

He wasn't exactly sure where or what 'heaven' was, but it seemed to equate to Aetherius. Though Marcus hadn't admitted to writing the song, Dante knew he'd never heard it before, and the sadness in the younger man's eyes spoke all too clearly of the pain he must have suffered.

" _Time can bring you down, time can bend your knees._

 _Time can break your heart, have you begging please, begging please._

 _Beyond the door there's peace I'm sure_

 _And I know there'll be no more tears in heaven."_

Yes, there could be no doubt in Dante's mind: the Dragonborn had lost someone very dear to him. It only added to the mystery that was the man.

Marcus concluded the song in the same quiet manner in which he'd begun, and Dante nodded appreciatively. "You're very talented, Marcus Dragonborn," he congratulated him. "Where did you learn to play like that?"

Marcus turned away as he placed the lute in a cabinet near the stairs. "Oh, here and there," he replied in an offhand manner.

"In Cyrodiil, perhaps?" Dante pressed.

"I've never been to Cyrodiil," Marcus stated.

"Oh?" Dante mused. The Housecarl, Gregor, must have been correct then. The Dragonborn must be one of those Imperials not born in their native Province. "Were you born in Skyrim, then?"

"I don't know."

The statement was as abrupt as it was final. Clearly, Marcus didn't want to talk about this. A heartbeat later, however, he sighed. "Look," he said by way of apology. "The truth is, I had…an accident a few years back. I don't know what happened to me. I woke up in a cart bound for Helgen and execution. I had no memories of my past and could barely remember my name. They had me lined up at the chopping block when Alduin attacked. In the confusion, I escaped. Since then, I've done my best to just live a normal life. It's just that extraordinary things keep getting in my way." He quirked a lop-sided smile. "I don't really like to talk about it much because I simply can't remember it, and right now, I don't really care. Who I may have been before isn't who I am now." _And you will never know how true that is!_ he thought with some irony. "I'm telling you this now because I know we'll be travelling together for some time, and I'd rather not have tensions like that between us."

"Tensions?" Dante parroted, ingenuous.

"You're a thief," Marcus pointed out. "You're also a Nightingale. Neither of those occupations sits well with me, but in my current situation I've had to deal with rogues and scoundrels to get the information I need to save this land I love. You also hold your office from the Emperor himself – and I'm still not sure how you managed to swing that, but it's not really any of my business, as long as it doesn't put my family at risk. But I don't know how much of what we've discussed will get back to Titus Mede the Second."

"What, exactly, are you saying then?" Dante demanded, narrowing his eyes.

Marcus blew out a breath. "I'm saying that I'm not sure I can trust you yet. I know you're digging for information about me. I'm not stupid. You put Gregor through the mill yesterday asking questions about me on the way up here. What I'd like to know is: _why?"_

Without missing a beat, Dante replied, "I need to know who I'm working with." There was no way he was prepared yet to divulge the real reason for his coming here. "Your wife owes me a favor. I've called in that favor, only to be handed off to you to see it fulfilled. I feel I've been more than fair, sharing information about Dominion movements in other parts of Tamriel. I didn't have to do that."

Marcus relaxed a bit. "No," he admitted. "That's true, you didn't. And I'm grateful for the information, I truly am. It's opened my eyes to the fact that the Dominion has operations going on simultaneously in all parts of Tamriel." He gave another exasperated sigh. "It also means the Alliance doesn't have the manpower to keep track of it all. And I'm only one Dragonborn." There was a look of pure concern shadowing the Imperial's steel gray eyes.

Dante relented, but only a little. "My organization is continuing to monitor their activities in Cyrodiil," he assured the younger man. "We've also been working on coming up with a map of all the Ayleid ruins in our Province, and pin-pointing which ones would be the most likely locations for hidden Thalmor operations. So far we've found about thirty-six or so, but we're certain there are more."

"Tamsyn's friend Sylfaen is helping with that as well," Marcus nodded. "I'll see if I can get her to draw us a map of the ones she remembers, and we can compare them."

"Sylfaen?" Dante queried. "That Snow Elf the Arch-Mage left the Imperial City with? The last time I saw her she was trussed up like a chicken on St. Alessia's Day."

Marcus chuckled in spite of himself. "They're good friends now," he explained. "Sylfaen had a religious experience and is no longer a Thalmor operative. In fact, she has completely retired from public life."

"The Thalmor don't retire," Dante pointed out. "Anyone foolish enough to attempt to leave the organization disappears and is never seen again."

"Well, in a way," Marcus quirked a grin, "that's what Sylfaen has done…but on her own terms. And no, I won't tell you where she is, so don't ask."

Dante shrugged. "Suit yourself."

They heard movements in a room behind the great fireplace and Marcus remarked, "Sounds like Lydia and Gregor are up and about. If you'll excuse me, I need to make some preparations for our trip." He gave a formal bow and retreated to his private quarters, leaving Dante to ponder what he'd learned.

The Dragonborn was gifted musically, was well-read, and had more than troll fat between the ears. He was intensely private and refused to discuss his past. Dante had heard rumors of the man taking down dragons single-handedly, but he had yet to see the Imperial in action. Well, this trip of theirs would soon put that question to rest.

Enticing aromas were coming from the kitchen, and Dante felt his stomach rumble. There was time yet before breakfast would be ready, and he had noted the presence of a library of sorts in the parlor. Perhaps now would be a good time to see what sort of books the Dragonborn and his wife were interested in. One could learn much about a person by perusing their library.

As he examined the small but impressive collection of history books, something the Dragonborn said about his past leaped back into his mind: _I don't really like to talk about it much because I simply can't remember it._ And yet, not long before that, when he played the song on his lute, he'd said, _It's a song I knew before I came to Skyrim._

The Dragonborn had contradicted himself in less than ten minutes. _He's lying,_ Dante realized. _He's hiding_ something.

Whatever it was, Dante was determined to find it out.

When Dante saw the two horses brought around to the front door for them, his eyes widened in surprise. The sorrel mare was grazing in the paddock not far away. The two before him now were a dappled gray gelding, to whom the Dragonborn was strapping his bedroll and pack. The other was an impressive black stallion with a flowing mane and tail and 'feathers' on his feet. Gregor was holding the bridle, but even as burly as he was, the stallion was in high spirits and jerked the Nord around.

"It's just early morning jitters," Marcus called over. "Also, Sadie's in heat right now and Nightshade can sense it."

"Nightshade, eh?" Dante grinned. "I like the name. What about the gelding?"

"He's Nightshade's stable companion," Marcus explained. "This is Storm, and he helps keep Nightshade calm. The big guy there knows that Storm is no threat to his position as herd leader."

Dante approached Nightshade, but the stallion lunged and snapped with his teeth, practically dragging Gregor with him.

"Whoa, there, big fella!" the Nord cried.

"Easy, now," Dante crooned, summoning up his magicka and casting a _Calm_ spell on the stallion. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The effect was almost instantaneous. Nightshade immediately settled down and allowed Dante to strap his gear to the saddle before mounting. Though the horse snorted and pawed the ground, he didn't make any further attempt to be unruly.

Marcus gave a nod of approval. "I was going to suggest you do that," he said. "It's what I usually end up doing when I have to ride him."

"Nightshade is yours?" Dante asked.

Marcus nodded.

"Then why aren't you riding him?"

The Dragonborn gave an unashamed smirk. "I wanted to see if you could handle yourself around horses. Storm isn't nearly enough of a challenge."

"Did I pass the test?" Dante drawled laconically.

The smirk became a grin. "With flying colors."

Tamsyn came to the door to see them off, with Lucia and Barbas behind her, and frowned as she overhead the last few comments.

"Marcus Dragonborn," she scolded. "Sometimes you can be a real jerk!"

"I know, my love," he chuckled, "but you love me anyway!" He enveloped Lucia in a bear-hug. "You behave yourself while I'm gone, okay, sweetheart?"

"I will, Papa," the pre-teen promised. "And I'll keep practicing that new song you taught me!"

Marcus leaned over and ruffled the fur on Barbas' head. "Keep them safe for me," he requested, and Barbas lolled out his tongue.

" _You don't need t' worry a bit,"_ the Daedric dog promised. _"I'll watch over 'em like dey was my own family…which dey are!"_ He wagged his tail enthusiastically.

"Thanks, Barbas," Marcus murmured gratefully. He stepped back to Tamsyn and swept her close in a long, tender kiss and tapped his ear as he turned back to the horses.

"We'll stay in touch," he said.

With that cryptic remark, Marcus easily mounted Storm and pointed the horse's head in the direction of the road to the south.

Tamsyn waved from the front porch before retreating inside, with Lucia and Barbas following her, and Dante was left alone on the road with a man about whom he still knew very little.

"How long will it take us to reach Dawnstar?" the Breton man asked.

"About four hours or so," Marcus replied. "We can save a little time if we cut overland near Fort Dunstad. The road swings east and north from there to head up to Fort Fellhammer, before heading northwest and then north again to Dawnstar. That's at least an hour and a half out of our way."

"So, we'll take the short cut, then," Dante decided.

"Just be aware there are more dangers in the wilds," Marcus informed him. "This isn't Cyrodiil. The Imperial Legions keep the roads patrolled, but out in the wild, you're on your own."

"I'm not concerned," Dante assured him. "I can handle myself."

"I hope so," Marcus replied, but there was a definite tone of doubt in his voice. Dante decided to let it pass. He owed the Dragonborn no explanation of his skills, and he preferred to prove them by demonstration, rather than by boasting.

They had been riding only a half hour when Dante realized they were traveling northeast instead of north.

"How far out of the way does this road take us?" he inquired.

"In miles or in time?" Marcus asked.

"Does it matter?" Dante asked, lifting a brow. "It seems to me that if we want to head to Dawnstar, we're heading in the wrong direction."

Marcus pulled Storm up and turned around in his saddle to face the Breton rogue.

"I did warn you there are dangers in the wild," he reminded his companion. "One of those is a giant camp, Blizzard Rest, just around the shoulder of those hills there. Cutting overland would take us far too close to that camp, and giants are very territorial."

"Are they that dangerous, then?" Dante asked doubtfully.

"Let's just say that getting hit by one could launch you into the upper atmosphere and leave it at that," Marcus said. "I'd rather not tangle with them. They're generally peaceful, unless provoked. I have no intention of provoking them." He kicked Storm's sides and the dappled gelding took off at a trot.

Dante nudged Nightshade and the stallion obliged by prancing after his stable companion. He had heard of giants, of course, but had never seen one. _Could they really be that bad?_ he wondered.

An hour later they connected with the main road that passed from Windhelm to Dawnstar and turned their horses' heads west. Not far from the junction, they drew near to a landmark that the Dragonborn called the 'Weynon Stones.'

"They were named after Weynon Priory in Cyrodiil, apparently," Marcus told him. "I know there's a shrine to Talos there."

"An open shrine?" Dante inquired. "Even though Talos worship is ostensibly outlawed?"

"It may be outlawed," Marcus rumbled. "But that doesn't mean there aren't those who still revere their Hero-God." He resisted the automatic reflex to touch the talisman under his tunic and armor. "I've actually met Talos," he added, with no arrogance. It was a simple statement of fact. "He requested that I do my best to make sure his memory isn't wiped from the history of Skyrim, and I intend to do just that."

Dante said nothing. Indeed, there was nothing he could add to this. The stories of the Dragonborn and the Arch-Mage traveling to Sovngarde and back were just short of fanciful, but few, if any knew what had actually occurred there. That the Dragonborn had killed Alduin the World-Eater there was proven by the fact that the Dragon God of Destruction had not returned.

The day wore on as they made their way up the road to Dawnstar. As the sun climbed higher overhead, they reached a large fortress Marcus called Fort Dunstad. Soldiers dressed in both Imperial and Stormcloak armor mingled behind the stockade wall. The gates were open, and the two men were able to pass through.

"Ho, Dragonborn!" one of the female soldiers called out. She was dressed in Stormcloak armor.

Marcus raised his hand and smiled. "Dagmar!" he called out. "It's good to see you again! Still seeing Ralof?"

"As often as I can," the Nord woman laughed, unashamed. "Would you believe the fool went all the way up to Dawnstar the last time he was here to buy an amulet of Mara from the priest, Erandur?"

"Really?" Marcus grinned, delighted. "Have you accepted him?"

Dagmar gave a sly look. "I haven't told him no," she admitted, "but I haven't told him yes yet, either!"

Marcus laughed. "He's a good man, Dagmar," he called out as they headed toward the north gate. "Don't keep him guessing too long!"

"Soon, Dragonborn, soon!" she waved back, before returning to her forge.

"Friend of yours?" Dante guessed.

"She's a good woman," Marcus smiled. "She'll keep Ralof on his toes. He won't want to lose her to someone else."

"Is that how it's done here in Skyrim?" the Breton man inquired.

Marcus shrugged. "Anyone who's lived here long enough will tell you that life is hard and short," he explained. "They don't have long engagements, like they do in Cyrodiil or High Rock. They get married simply, without a lot of fanfare and sometimes while they're still very young – fifteen or sixteen years old, sometimes. Nords tend to mature more quickly than other races, I guess."

Dante nodded as he stored the information away in his mind. A large part of his success came from gathering information. It was one reason why he was inclined to help the Arch-Mage and her husband with their ultimate plan, as Tamsyn had related to him some months back, of defeating the Aldmeri Dominion once and for all. The more information one could gather, the more informed one was, and the better prepared to enact upon that information when needed.

Part of what made the Nords such ferocious warriors was that both their men and their women trained to take up arms to defend their land. In Cyrodiil there were women who rose through the ranks of the Imperial Army but did not often mix military careers with a civilian life. A woman in the Imperial Army seldom left to get married and settle down to become a wife and mother. Nords, it seemed, were cut from a different cloth, and saw no difficulty in combining the best of both worlds.

As they rode along, Dante reflected on the Dragonborn as a man. Here was an Imperial who did not act like his fellow countrymen and admitted to having no memories of living in his home Province. He seemed to have a Nord's guarded attitude toward strangers, and Dante wondered if that might be because of the time he had spent in this land, becoming acquainted with its people and their customs. From the stories Dante had heard about the man, he seemed brave enough, yet he chose to avoid confrontations when there was no need for it. In addition, the "peace talks" at High Hrothgar had been conducted privately, without Thalmor interference, with the Dragonborn – an Imperial, mind you, not a Nord – insisting that it was just "an internal issue, until the dragon problem was resolved."

 _They had to have discussed more than just the 'dragon problem,'_ Dante mused to himself. _And what wouldn't I have given to have been a fly on the wall?_

Clearly, the fact that tensions between Imperials and Stormcloaks in Skyrim were lessening hadn't been lost on the Dominion. Oh, there were still reports of pockets of fighting breaking out between the two Nord factions – those loyal to the Empire and those loyal to Ulfric Stormcloak – but the Dominion operatives sent to observe these skirmishes somehow never made it back to file reports. Dante knew the truth of this because of sensitive intelligence his own 'operatives' had recovered from Belda Buro, near the coast of the Abacean Sea. The wealth of information that had been 'liberated' from the ruin by Minnow and Reydin had Dante basking in a glow of smugness, and the Dominion scrambling and scratching their heads wondering how in Oblivion anyone had gotten in and stolen their secret, sensitive dossiers.

One of the most highly prized documents he had recovered alerted Dante to just how many members of the Emperor's court were in league with or owed their positions to the Aldmeri Dominion. It was far worse than he had anticipated. His own appointment to Councilor had been at Titus Mede's command, as a reward for saving his life, and the Dominion didn't like this one bit. Dante realized at once how crafty the Emperor had been in making 'Lance de Fer' his closest confidante. It painted another target on Dante's back, of course, but now he had the information he needed to put eyes and ears in places he needed to watch his back.

"This is of the utmost importance," he told his inner cadre, which included not only Minnow and Reydin, but other close, trusted operatives. Gih-Ja, the Argonian woman, was sent to watch the docks; Da'zhir and Da'zhar, though currently in Elsweyr, were also included in the inner circle. The other three were a Nord, an Altmer mage and a Dunmer merchant from Blacklight. "The Emperor has too many enemies too close to him. We've thwarted Amaund Motierre, but that doesn't mean the Thalmor won't try to get to him through someone else." His inner circle nodded.

Beor Iron-fist was the Nord, but was small, wiry and dark-haired – completely unlike the stereotypical vision of a Nord. "I can get in, get out and get gone before they know I'm there," he said proudly, when the Grey Fox sounded him out. After several missions with the young Nord, Dante could attest to the truth of the lad's words.

"But why 'Iron-fist'?" he asked the young man. "If you'll forgive me, that sounds like someone proficient with a sword or axe."

Beor gave a rueful grin. "It's a family name," he shrugged, mischief dancing in his pale blue eyes. "I inherited the name, but not the body to go with it. I'd drop it, but I don't have any family left to embarrass." The grin faded, and a grim look crossed his face, turning the summer blue eyes into chips of winter ice. "The Thalmor saw to that when they hauled my father off to one of their prisons for worshipping Talos. My mother and sister were taken away, tortured and raped to death. I hid in the barn, under the hay. I was only a boy of eight at the time, and sickly to boot. I'd have never lasted against them if I'd fought that day. They'd have killed me for sure. I decided to bide my time and wait until I was old enough for some payback. I only ended up here in Cyrodiil because I was captured by some bandits and sold into slavery. I escaped, after drugging the man that bought me. Now I'm on the run. This seemed like a good place to hide."

Dante had nodded. It was story he had heard again and again among their 'little family.'

"Tell me about yourself," he said to Drelan Suvaris, the Dunmer. "Why should I allow you into my Guild?"

"I can get you the best deals from nearly all the merchants in Tamriel," Drelan said confidently. "I have connections with all the caravans that cross Tamriel. I can fence and liquidate assets when necessary, and I'm not bad at forging, given a little time."

A test of Drelan's skills proved he hadn't been boasting. His was as proficient at duplicating maps as he was at documents, and he was able to fence contraband with people even Dante hadn't been able to deal with. Drelan had a gift for getting the best price for anything that needed to be 'passed along.'

Letting the Altmer mage into their organization had been touchy. Many mistrusted Ashabareth Vaneris from the start, simply because she was Altmer.

"She could be a Thalmor spy," Reydin warned.

Dante's gut told him otherwise, and he had learned to trust his gut. Asha, as she preferred to be called, had a gift for magic that excelled his own, which wasn't that difficult to imagine, since she was at least two hundred years old.

"Why become a thief?" he'd asked her.

"In point of fact," she explained, "it's how I've managed to stay alive this long. The Thalmor want me dead, so I took a little trip up to Skyrim a century ago and had an old friend of mine in Riften change my face. I changed my name at that time, as well, and just…disappeared in plain sight."

"Why do the Thalmor want you dead?" Dante asked, impressed and unnerved at the knowledge the face he was looking at hadn't been hers originally. Was there _truly_ someone with the skills to remake a face? Surely Brynjolf would have mentioned it, wouldn't he have? It boggled the mind!

Asha shrugged. "I spoke out against them shortly after the Oblivion Crisis ended," she explained, "when the Thalmor rose to power and tried to take credit for Martin Septim's sacrifice. The Thalmor hunted me down, as they did anyone unafraid to speak the truth. They caught me and threw me into one of their torture prisons, but I escaped and made them pay for their abuse tenfold. It was very easy at that time to sneak into their homes and slip a little poison into their food. I'm _very_ good at alchemy."

Dante had allowed her to stay, and over the past decade, though he curbed her enthusiasm for poisoning their marks, Asha had proven she was more than capable of getting in and out unseen. For that reason, among others, she was admitted to the inner circle.

Now that the tide was turning, and it appeared he had some support in the North from the Dragonborn, it was time to start turning the thumbscrews against the Dominion.

"Asha," he told her before leaving for Skyrim, "I need you to stay close to the Emperor. Protect him at all costs. Your cover is that of a servant in the White Gold tower, hired by me and given clearance to be in the Emperor's chambers. Don't let anything happen to him."

"I'll guard him with my life," Asha promised.

"Beor," he said, turning to the young Nord, "I know you know all about horses."

"Been around them most of my life," the dark-haired lad said. "Stolen quite a few of them, too!"

"You'll be at the stables," Dante told him. "Keep your eyes and ears open." Beor nodded.

The Guildmaster looked at Drelan. "You'll need to be at court," he told the Dunmer. "I'd like you to pretend to be a noblemer from Morrowind offering trade contracts with Cyrodiil. Make it sound like an overture to peace between your Provinces."

"That won't be easy," Drelan frowned. "My people aren't very happy with the Imperials right now, and we have long memories about how they abandoned us during the Oblivion Crisis."

"I'm counting on you to make this work," Dante insisted. "Offer deals the Emperor is sure to refuse, but which will be tempting enough for him not to dismiss you outright. He might feel he can talk you down."

"How long do I have to keep this up?" Drelan complained.

"Not long," Dante said thoughtfully. "If I'm right, it won't be long after I leave that the Thalmor will make their move. Just stay alert."

"I'll do the best I can," Drelan sighed. "But what do I do if the Emperor accepts the contracts?"

Dante grinned, "Then we'll have to make a trip to Morrowind and convince them its in their best interests to honor them. And we'll get a cut for 'negotiating' the terms."

Drelan chuckled. "There's the Grey Fox I know and love," he grinned.

"All of you, keep your heads low and watch out for trouble," Dante warned them. "Contact Reydin at the Guild with any information you can find out that will further our cause. I'll be away, up north in Skyrim for a couple of weeks, but Reydin will know how to reach me."

And with that, he had to be satisfied that Reydin would indeed contact him, through the portal network, if any problems arose.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the clouds moved in and the temperatures plummeted. Once they were past the shelter of Fort Dunstad the winds that swept across the tundra of the Pale hit them with full force, whipping snow in their eyes and freezing Dante to the marrow.

"Should we stop somewhere and wait this blizzard out?" he called to his companion.

"Blizzard?" Marcus chuckled. "This is just a little wind and snow. Believe me, if we get caught in a blizzard, you'll _know_ it! Besides, there really isn't anywhere around here to take shelter in. The Empire wanted to build way stations along the main roads in Skyrim every ten miles or so, as I understand it, back before I came here, but High King Torygg wouldn't allow it."

"Why not?" Dante asked, shivering in spite of his well-insulated armor. If this wasn't a true blizzard, he didn't want to be caught in a real one!

Marcus shrugged. "He probably didn't want to pony up his share of the costs, I guess," the Dragonborn replied. "But if you're having trouble with the weather, maybe I can do something about it."

"It's the weather," Dante drawled. "As uncomfortable as it is, there isn't much you can do about it."

Marcus gave a sly grin and threw his head back.

" _LOK VAH KOOR!"_ he roared, and the horses whinnied and pranced. Dante fought to keep Nightshade under control.

"What in Oblivion was _that?"_ he demanded angrily.

Marcus merely smiled. "Wait for it…" he cautioned, raising one finger.

The sun burned through the clouds and the wind and snow subsided. In a few moments, it was as though it had never happened. Dante stared in amazement at the Dragonborn, who turned smugly away and kicked Storm to get him moving again. The Breton man shook his head in wonder before nudging Nightshade to follow. Yes, there was certainly more to the Dragonborn than he let on, and it would be a foolish man who underestimated him.

They reached Dawnstar just past midday, and Dante pulled out the flyer for the museum that he had tucked into an inner pocket. Following the directions, and asking a guard along the way, the two men circled the bay where small merchant ships bobbed in the water. Gulls and hawks screeched and circled overhead, and the smell of salt and fish permeated the air.

The museum was located on the east side of the bay, near the alchemy shop that Marcus remembered from previous trips here. It was also, he realized, not far from Cicero's Sanctuary, and the small dock where Harlaug, the ferryman, took individuals to either Windhelm or Solitude.

 _And sometimes to Icewater Jetty, if the pay is good,_ Marcus mused to himself.

They found the museum and approached to see a woman in mage robes arguing with a tall, thin, dark-haired Imperial in a long red and gold embroidered surcoat. Marcus didn't recognize the Imperial, but he knew the middle-aged Breton mage, Madena, as the former court wizard to Skald the Elder. She worked for Brina Merelis now, and seemed happier with her situation than she had been working for Skald.

"Your ancestors wouldn't want this, Silas!" she protested. So, this was Silas Vesuius, the museum proprietor.

"Why should I hide from it?" Silas demanded. "This is my family's legacy!"

"It's the _past!"_ Madena insisted. "Dead oaths on dead lips. Let it stay there!"

Silas scowled at her. For a moment it looked as though he might have struck out, but noticing the two men mounted nearby, he merely hissed, "The museum is opening, Madena." He glanced again at the two men, but retreated inside.

Madena sighed and shook her head as Dante and Marcus dismounted and tied their horses to the porch railing.

"Everything alright, Madena?" Marcus asked kindly.

She started, but relaxed and gave a sad smile upon recognizing the Dragonborn.

"That museum is a mistake," she insisted. "I beg you, don't go into Silus's museum. You'll only encourage this delusion of grandeur he has."

"I don't think I've ever seen Silas around here before," Marcus commented. "And you know I've been a regular visitor here. What can you tell us about him?"

"Silas comes from one of the oldest families in Dawnstar," Madena said, surprising them. "He has traveled quite a bit, which could be why you haven't seen him before. He's only recently returned to build this…this _museum_ in his own home. His family has a complicated history," she went on. "Several of his ancestors belonged to the Mythic Dawn, the cult that almost destroyed Tamriel. His family's involvement was only found out well after the crisis had died down, but it still ruined their reputation. They were outcasts. And now Silas is back and this museum to the Mythic Dawn is his way of trying to rebuild his family's pride. It's misguided."

Marcus nodded. There wasn't much he could add to that. "Thanks, Madena," he said, and the two men watched her as she headed back into town, still shaking her head.

"Well, then," Marcus invited Dante to precede him up the steps. "Shall we go see what this is all about?"

"Indeed," Dante drawled. "Let me take the lead on this, if you will. I'm going to play dumb with him and see if he lets slip anything we should be aware of."

"Good plan," Marcus agreed, and followed the Breton Guildmaster up the stairs and into the house.

Silas looked up from a journal he was holding as they entered. He recognized the two men as the ones he'd seen outside and smiled.

"Ah! Here come my first customers! The Museum of the Mythic Dawn is open, my friends!"

"Museum of the Mythic Dawn?" Dante asked, his eyes wide and innocent. "What's that?"

"Yes," Silas purred smugly. "My collection of artifacts from a group that toppled an Empire!" His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Why don't you have a look around, both of you? You can browse the displays and we can talk. I have a job you two look perfect for."

Marcus gave a rumble from somewhere deep in his chest, but Dante cut in smoothly. "That sounds wonderful! We're looking for work as it happens." His eyes took in every detail; the banners on the walls, the display cases set up around one end of the small house, and the robes Silas wore, which were a bit moth-eaten and threadbare, due to their age, but nonetheless were genuine Mythic Dawn robes.

He joined Marcus at the first display case near the door.

"The tapestries hung here and outside were found in Mythic Dawn hideouts," Silas gushed eagerly, "where the members would meet and plot."

Dante noticed they were in worse condition than the robes Silas wore. The display case held two more robes, as well as a pair of boots and gloves. They glowed slightly from the enchantments laid upon them two hundred years ago. It was probably the only reason they hadn't fallen apart already, as the tapestries threatened to do.

"The cult's greatest accomplishment," Silas went on blithely, "was the assassination of the Septim dynasty, and the opening of the Oblivion gates."

Dante felt sickened. He hadn't been there at the time, of course, but he would hardly call murdering an Emperor and assisting a Daedric Prince in nearly destroying the world a 'great accomplishment.'

The next cabinet held only a charred piece of parchment with an eerie design on it which hurt the eyes to look at.

"That burned paper is all that's left of the _Mysterium Xarxes,"_ Silas informed them, "the blasphemous Book written by Mehrunes Dagon himself." There was a hint of sadness in his tone, even as he admitted the book was 'blasphemous.' "It's said that Mankar Camaron used the book to open a portal to a Paradise where all his followers would live forever," Vesuius went on. There was a dreamy look in the man's eyes.

Warning bells were going off in Dante's head. Vesuius might be a weak-willed fool, but it was clear to the Breton Guildmaster that the curator harbored hopes of restoring the 'glory days' of a cult that would pose a genuine threat to his plans. And might, if the Dominion got to the man first. Dante had no intention of watching his back for the rest of his life if his plans came to fruition. He was grateful, at least, that so far it seemed he was one step ahead of the Thalmor.

Marcus had moved over to a case that held four volumes in red leather. Silas noticed his fellow Imperial studying the tomes.

"The _Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes_ were written by the Mythic Dawn cult leader, Mankar Camaron," he pointed out proudly. "He promised his followers a Paradise awaited them when they died. That they would be reborn by Mehrunes Dagon's side."

Marcus said nothing, remembering to let the Breton Guildmaster take the lead in this quest, but his mind was full of turmoil. How could one man be so blind? He had read about the Mythic Dawn, and their involvement in the murder of Emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh. The fallout from that event precipitated the Oblivion Crisis, and allowed the Daedric Prince of Destruction to break the barriers the Aedra had put around Nirn, and attempt to invade and destroy this world. He shuddered inwardly. Didn't this nutjob realize that _he_ himself would also die? Marcus highly doubted that Vesuius considered this with any clarity. He probably assumed he'd be one of the fortunate few to be reborn. Marcus had a different opinion on that, based on what he knew of the Prince's nature, from having read _The Book of Daedra._

Dante had wandered over to the last display case. Silas came over eagerly to expound upon its contents.

"Ah, yes, that scabbard!" Vesuius exclaimed. "Notice the insignia? An Oblivion Gate. A key symbol of Mehrunes Dagon, the patron Daedra of the Mythic Dawn."

"Interesting," Dante murmured in encouragement.

"Did you have any questions about the museum?" Silas asked. Eyeing the Breton slyly he added, "Or would you rather talk business?"

Ignoring the invitation, Dante lifted an eyebrow. "Why did you open this museum?" he asked baldly. "I mean, the Mythic Dawn didn't exactly have the most stellar reputation."

Vesuius shrugged. "It's no secret that my family were once members of the Mythic Dawn," he admitted, unashamed. "One of my forefathers was even chosen to assassinate Uriel Septim himself."

Dante blinked. The Arch-Mage hadn't lied. She'd told him this was precisely what Vesuius would say. How could she have known? He was still having trouble wrapping his mind around the idea that she could predict the future. And yet, she'd known he was a Nightingale immediately upon meeting him, months ago. What also troubled him was the evident pride the Imperial curator was taking in his dubious family history. Most people would want to keep that sort of thing hidden.

"We hid from our past for years," Silas continued, frowning. "We became tradesmen; people of coin and influence." His eyes brightened. "But I realized that the Mythic Dawn's importance – _our_ importance – to history cannot be denied." A faraway look came into his eyes as his voice resonated around the tiny hut. "I'll see everyone in Tamriel remember that for a moment, _we_ held the fate of the world in our hands, for good or ill!"

Marcus made a warning rumble deep in his chest and Dante quickly asked, "Tell me more about the Mythic Dawn."

"They were worshippers of Mehrunes Dagon," Silas explained, smiling. "The Daedric Lord of Destruction and Change. "The Mythic Dawn killed Uriel Septim the Seventh and his heirs, triggering the events that led to the Oblivion Crisis, when the Daedra invaded Tamriel."

 _And you want to bring this_ back? Dante wondered, appalled.

"All that remains of the infamous cult, I've gathered in my museum," Silas concluded.

 _Keep him talking,_ Dante thought to himself. _He's bound to let slip if the Thalmor have already contacted him. The fool has no idea what he's doing._

"Remind me," he mused, "who exactly is Mehrunes Dagon again? I don't know much about the Daedra."

"Ah! An excellent question!" Silas beamed. "Mehrunes Dagon is the Daedric Lord of Destruction, Change and Ambition."

"I see," Dante murmured. Clearly what Vesuius lacked in common sense, he more than made up for in ambition. Dante could see the Dragonborn clenching his fists in repressed anger and decided to hurry things along. "Tell me more about this job you want done."

"A little history, first," Silas replied indulgently. "After the Oblivion Crisis, a number of groups cropped up dedicated to wiping out the remains of the Mythic Dawn. One of these groups found Mehrunes' Razor, the artifact of Dagon. They split it into three fragments and pledged to keep them apart forever." He smiled. "That was almost a hundred and fifty years ago, and the pieces are still being kept by the descendants of that group. And they're right here, in Skyrim."

"Amazing!" Dante breathed in apparent awe. "How did you find them?"

A belated look of caution crossed Vesuius' face. It was fleeting, no more than a shifting of the eyes and a slight furrowing of his brow, but Dante noticed. "Well, of course, as a scholar I can't reveal my sources," he demurred. "Let's just say I had a stroke of good fortune and leave it at that, shall we?"

 _So, the Thalmor_ have _gotten to him,_ Dante noted privately. "And you want us to get the pieces for you, right?" he asked now, pretending to ignore the rebuff. "Where do we look?"

Happy to have assistance in acquiring the pieces of the Razor, Vesuius suspected nothing. "At least two of the owners, Ghunzul and Drascua, are vicious marauders," Vesuius explained. "As for the third, Jorgen…well, I only know that he lives in Morthal."

Dante saw Marcus stiffen. It was an attitude of recognition. The Dragonborn _knew_ this Jorgen person.

"I'd like to know more about the Razor itself," Dante remarked. "I mean, if we're to retrieve it, I'd like to know these details, to make sure I've got the real deal."

"It's held many names," Silas replied thoughtfully. "The Dagger of Final Wounds, Bane of the Righteous, the Kingslayer. The Mythic Dawn worshipped Dagon as a god. Having his Razor would be invaluable to my collection!"

 _If the Dominion lets you keep it,_ Dante thought acerbically.

Vesuius presented Dante with a journal. "Here are my notes about the pieces," he explained. "I'll gladly pay you for getting them…any way you can," he emphasized. He stared at Dante keenly. "No questions asked."

"I'll see what I can find out," Dante promised, and beckoned to Marcus to follow him outside. To his credit, the Dragonborn waited until they were well away from people and headed up the hill to the Windpeak Inn for a drink.

"What in the name of the Nine Divines is that fetcher _thinking?"_ Marcus exploded.

"Quiet!" Dante shushed him. "Not here out in the open. Let's get that drink and we can discuss this situation."

The two men quickly found a table in a quiet corner, and after their drinks were delivered, put their heads together to discuss what they had learned.

"That man is a danger to the Emperor," Marcus declared.

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know," Dante replied drily. "He's also a danger to whomever sits on the throne next…unless it's someone the Dominion selects."

"I caught that near-slip of his," Marcus nodded. "Someone gave him that information about the owners of the pieces. What does his journal say?"

Dante pulled the slim leather-clad volume from inside his armor and opened it. He held it so that Marcus could read it as well. The first part seemed to be a genealogical lineage of each of the three owners from eight generations back to the present day. The 'History' section was a bit more promising.

The Razor had been divided among the three highest ranking members of the order's inner circle, to be passed down from oldest child to oldest child _"until the twin moons themselves disappeared from the skies."_ Although this pledge seemed to have been loosely interpreted, as the moons did vanish from the heavens during The Void Nights of 4E98-4E100, the Razor's pieces were still being bequeathed through the generations during and after this time.

" _Tracing the lineages of the inner circle proved especially difficult thanks to the group's unusual membership. While the leader of the Keepers of the Razor was a Nord and thankfully was easily researched through the clan's family histories, the other two members were an Orc and a native daughter of the Reach, whose culture's paucity of respect for literacy made tracking them down less straightforward. Fortunately, Othmash gro-Gularz and his sons are well-recorded for their service in the Imperial Legion. Yet the daughters of Sorcha proved nearly impossible to find until I uncovered Markarth's meticulously thorough tax records, which recorded each birth of Sorcha's kin in order to administer certain petty fees. Sorscha's current descendent, Drascua, fled to Dead Crone Rock after the Markarth Incident, and is considered by the Jarl to be a major threat to the safety of the hold."_

Marcus looked at the date of the last entry. It had been written before the Reach had been handed over to Jarl Nepos, and subsequently Jarl Esmerelda after Nepos' murder. He mentioned this to the Breton Guildmaster.

"Think we'll have any trouble getting the piece from Drascua, then?" Dante asked. He really didn't know much about the Forsworn, other than the reports he'd had from the Alliance.

Marcus gave a smug smile. "Maybe," he hedged. "The Reachfolk can be very particular about giving up things they've become attached to." _Like their land,_ he thought privately. "Let's save that one for last. Morthal's not too far from here. We can head back to Heljarchen and get there before too late in the day, rest up and head out in the morning."

Dante agreed, and the two men headed back to Heljarchen, reaching the sprawling mansion just as the sun set and Masser rose above the forests to the east. Secunda would not be up for hours yet.

Gregor met them at the door and took both horses to the stables while Marcus and Dante headed inside. Tamsyn met them in the great hall.

"Well?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow at the Breton Guildmaster.

He made a courtly bow and smiled. "My lady, it all unfolded just as you said it would. I will never doubt you again."

"I accept your gracious apology," Tamsyn giggled. "Come and sit by the fire, both of you. Tell me the details."

When they had finished, Tamsyn sighed. "It certainly sounds like Thalmor interference," she admitted, "even if Silas' journal never mentions them. Just the fact that he refused to reveal his resources is telling."

"I think we have to proceed as if the Dominion is already aware that we know about this," Marcus said.

"Indeed," Dante concurred. "It's clear to me that they tasked Vesuius to find the Razor. Once he had all the pieces and managed to get them put back together, they would have taken it from him – either by force, or by persuading him into a suicide mission to assassinate the Emperor. They would then have taken it from his corpse."

"We can't let that happen," Tamsyn frowned. "Titus Mede might not be the best Emperor to sit on the Ruby Throne, but he's all we've got. We don't want a Dominion puppet, like they tried to do with High King Torygg."

"We'll head to Morthal in the morning," Marcus stated. "I'll talk to Jorgen. He knows me. He might be willing to let us have the hilt."

"And if he isn't?" Dante countered. "We need a back-up plan in case that fails."

"I'm a very persuasive guy," Marcus said confidently. "I'm sure he'll see reason."

* * *

"Absolutely not," Jorgen scowled. "I've heard of this Silas Vesuius. My father had suspicions about his connection to the Mythic Dawn. Guess they were true." He blew out a breath, but didn't stop sharpening the saw blade he was working on. "I don't need this," he grumbled. "My family wasted eight generations keeping that Razor safe from a dead cult. As far as I'm concerned, it can stay locked in my chest in the house."

"Look, Jorgen," Marcus insisted. "You know me. I bought lumber from you when I built Heljarchen in the Pale. You know I'm not going to misuse it. I just want to make sure it's safe. And if, as you say, it's locked away in a chest in your house, you won't miss it."

"I don't care," Jorgen said firmly. "But my ancestor's do. You can't have it."

Marcus let out an exasperated sigh. He looked back towards where he'd left the Grey Fox with the horses, telling him he'd handle this one. The horses were still there, tied to the porch rail, but Dante was nowhere to be seen. He might have wandered back into town, Marcus thought. But he couldn't look for the Breton man right now. Since his Voice of the Emperor had failed, and Jorgen was a tougher nut to crack than he expected, he fell back on bribery. Who didn't love a little cash on the side?

"I'm willing to pay for it," Marcus cajoled. "Would a thousand septims change your mind?"

Jorgen stopped his grinding and looked up at the Dragonborn with a look of purest derision. "There are some things worth more than money, Dragonborn," he snorted. "Why don't you take your coin and keep walking?"

Frustrated and angry, Marcus considered browbeating the man into giving up the pieces, but managed to get his temper under control. Jorgen was only doing his duty as he saw it. And what would Lami say to him if she knew he'd threatened her husband? It didn't bear thinking about. Resigned, he turned back to the horses to see that Dante had returned. Where had he been?

Approaching the Breton Guildmaster now, Marcus sighed in apology. "I'm sorry, Greyshadow," he said. "I really thought I could talk him into it. He's refused."

"Did you try gold?"

"Yep. Didn't work any better."

"That's…that's inhuman!" Dante gasped. "How could a man like him turn down cold, hard gold?"

"Integrity," Marcus said. "He's a man of honor, and I respect that. It just means that we can't get the hilt from him. Maybe if we come back later, he'll have a change of heart. We might have caught him on a bad day."

"You could always threaten," Dante said mildly. "I find that works from time to time."

"No," Marcus insisted. "I wouldn't exactly call Jorgen a friend, but I know his wife from the alchemy shop here. Besides, I'm something of a…local legend…to these people. I don't want to resort to strongarm tactics. We'll go get the other two pieces and try again later. Maybe I can talk to Lami and see if she has any influence over her husband."

As they mounted their horses and headed out of town, Dante asked. "What did you mean by 'local legend'?"

Marcus hesitated. "It's not exactly something I'm proud of," he conceded, and Dante saw the pain etched on his face. "Early on, when I first arrived in Skyrim and learned I was Dragonborn, I came to Morthal on my way to a Nordic ruin north of here. I uncovered a plot by a cult of vampires to use the people of Morthal as blood cattle to feed upon. I wasn't alone. A Nord woman, Uthgerd the Unbroken, was with me. She…she died, clearing out the vampire den. We…I…stupidly believed we could clean the place out unharmed. Uthgerd paid for it with her life."

"Did you clear out the den?" Dante asked quietly.

"Yes," Marcus admitted. "But if I had thought things through more carefully, Uthgerd might still be here today." He didn't add that she had forgiven him. That wasn't the point. He still blamed himself.

"Was that who your song was about the other morning?" Dante inquired tentatively.

"What?" Marcus looked up at his companion. "Who, Uthgerd?" He smiled. "No, my song wasn't about her. We were just traveling companions, that's all."

Dante said nothing, and they rode along in silence for some time before remarking casually, "So, one down and two to go, if my count is correct."

"What?" Marcus blinked at him.

"We have one of the pieces," he replied smugly, pulling the hilt from his belt pouch. "We only need to find the other two."

"How did you-?" Anger and admiration warred for dominance on the Dragonborn's face. Admiration won out. "You stole the Hilt," he accused. "When did you do that?"

"While the two of you were arguing," Dante shrugged. "As soon as he said it was locked in a chest in his house, I slipped inside." He chuckled. "The front door wasn't even locked."

Marcus shook his head helplessly. "You realize I'm going to be the first person he comes to when he finds it missing, don't you?"

"How?" Dante inquired innocently. "You were with him the entire time. He saw us leaving together. Now, he _might_ ask you who you were traveling with, but honestly, I don't think he'll give it another thought. At least, until the day his own son comes of age and he tries to hand it down to the next generation."

Marcus subsided. He knew he'd have to make it up to Jorgen at some point in the future, but for now at least they had jumped one hurdle. "I don't know whether to be outraged or impressed," he sighed.

"Go for 'impressed'," Dante suggested with a sly look. "What we're doing is too important to let morals get in the way."

Marcus gave a wry chuckle. "Easy for _you_ to say," he muttered, and kicked Storm lightly to pick up the pace as they headed south out of Morthal. Knowing the terrain better than the Breton Guildmaster, Marcus took the lead and turned Storm's nose towards Labyrinthian. At the request of Jarl Idgrod, not long before, he had gone into the ruined city once more to clear out frost trolls that had been harrying the trade caravans coming up from the south to bring goods to Hjallmarch. At that time, Skyborn Altar to the east, and Eldersblood Peak to the west had been repopulated with two new dragons. One of them had been recruited to his cause of forming a draconian air force against the Thalmor. The other one's bones still remained where they had fallen after battling the Dragonborn and losing.

No trolls bothered them this trip, and they made good time through the pass that lay south of the former city of Bromjunar. They came down out of the mountains near Silent Moons camp, a notorious bandit hideout that Marcus periodically cleared out for Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun. Arrows _thunked_ around them, and Marcus realized the place was due for a little 'housecleaning' as he called it.

"This isn't what we're here to do, remember?" Dante called out as they dismounted and headed for the fortress.

"Stay with the horses, then," Marcus snapped, irritated at the Breton man's lack of compassion. "I'll take care of this. Balgruuf's a good friend of mine, and these bozos are preying on innocent folks that travel the roads out this way. I won't have it said that I let a friend down."

He turned to rush towards the camp while Dante mouthed the word "bozos?" in his wake before following.

A large group of bandits rushed towards them, weapons raised, and Dante quickly assessed the odds. Damn the Dragonborn's honor! Didn't he realize how badly outnumbered they were?

" _FUS RO DAH!"_

The thunderclap rolled across the plains ahead of them, and Dante realized the bellow had come from his companion. In the wake of that Shout, the bandits tumbled like leaves before a storm, several of them smashed against the rocky outcroppings between them and the fortress. They didn't get up.

The others staggered to get to their feet, but the Dragonborn and the Nightingale were quickly upon them before they could reclaim their weapons which had been knocked from their hands by the force of the _thu'um._

As the brigands closed with the Dragonborn, Dante crouched and relied on his own skills at sneaking to work his way around to the archers hanging behind the main group. At least six of the robbers ganged up on his Imperial companion, who appeared unconcerned, laying about him with a sword made of the same dragon bones as his armor. In his other hand he wielded a slightly curved sabre-style blade in a design vaguely familiar to Dante. It took him a moment to remember the display he'd seen in the Emperor's personal quarters: a mannequin wearing a unique set of armor in front of a plaque holding a similar sword. The Emperor had told him it was Blades regalia, belonging to the elite force of warriors assigned to protect the Septim line of Emperors before the Oblivion Crisis.

He was behind the archers now, and systematically crept up behind each of them to strike them down. They never saw him coming.

" _ZUN HAAL VIIK!"_

Cries of dismay caused Dante to look up. Every remaining bandit – and there were now only a handful – had lost their weapon, and scrambled back from the Dragonborn towards Dante's position. He gave a feral grin. He wasn't sure what the Dragonborn had done, but it definitely worked in his favor. It wasn't long before the only sounds were insects buzzing, birds chirping and the wind sweeping down from the mountains to the north.

"That was interesting, what you did back there," Dante acknowledged. "Just what exactly _did_ you do?"

"Which time?" Marcus asked innocently, though his grey eyes danced with mischief.

Dante pulled a face. "Keep your secrets, then," he shrugged. "Are we done here?"

Marcus sobered. "Not quite. There's bound to be a few of them inside. I want to make sure the entire nest has been cleared."

This was easily done, though Dante made note of the fact that the Dragonborn couldn't sneak if his life depended on it. Too many times their quarry was alerted to their presence, and they were forced to fight their way through, as opposed to slipping up behind someone and quietly slitting their throat.

"That armor of yours looks tough," Dante commented as they emerged two hours later, looted treasure carefully divided and packed away. "But you make far too much noise. Don't you know how to get around unseen and unheard?"

"It's never been a problem before," Marcus lied. Once more, the Breton Guildmaster was pushing his buttons, and he didn't like being the target of criticism.

"Well, it could end up being a problem _now,"_ Dante insisted. "I can get in and out without anyone noticing me, but you—"

"You're a Nightingale," Marcus said bluntly. "You have Nocturnal's favor."

"It isn't just that," Dante insisted. "And we'll get to how much you know about Nightingales in a moment. No, I'm talking about just moving around more quietly. Not all of my organization are Nightingales, but they manage not to draw attention to themselves."

"They're all thieves," Marcus snapped. "I'm not. And while I'll admit there are times when being silent would be preferable – and I've managed alright so far – I'll never have the ability to just disappear like you did during the heat of battle." He thunked his chestplate. "This is kind of a dead giveaway that I'm around."

"So, lose the heavy armor," Dante shrugged.

Marcus shook his head. "I've taken too much time and training to get used to it," he replied. "I feel more comfortable and protected inside this shell. I'm not giving that up."

The Breton Guildmaster sighed. "Then it might be as well on this trip that you leave anything to do with stealth to me."

"As you wish," his companion said stiffly. "This is your quest, after all. I'm just here for brute force."

Dante gave him a calculating look. "Not just brute force," he allowed graciously. "I think anyone who assumed you had nothing between your ears but troll fat would be making a grave mistake. You're a very complicated man, Dragonborn."

Marcus relented and chuckled. "I think I'll take that as the compliment I believe it was intended to be."

They recovered their horses and were soon on their way again.

"So tell me, Dragonborn," Dante mused. "Just how much _do_ you know about Nightingales?"

The sound of the Dragonborn's laughter echoed down the plains ahead of them.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: The lyrics to the song Marcus was singing were, of course, "Tears in Heaven" by Eric Clapton. Every now and then, as fulfilling as his life in Skyrim has been, Marcus gets a bit melancholy thinking of the family he left behind in Gaea. Next up, Marcus and Dante find the other pieces of the Razor, and a great mystery is solved in the process.]_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Cracked Tusk Keep, the place was called on their map, and it had taken Marcus and Dante a day and a half to reach it, tucked back into the hills at the western edge of Falkreath Hold. They had stayed the night at the Frostfruit Inn in Rorikstead, and Dante had shaken his head when the Dragonborn had given the innkeeper enough gold to buy a set of armor for his son, Erik, who wished to become an adventurer.

"You really _are_ a soft touch, aren't you, Dragonborn?" Dante mocked gently.

Marcus shrugged. "The boy's got potential," he conceded. "You saw us spar outside. With a little training he could be a decent warrior. He's clearly not cut out to be a farmer. And besides," he added soberly, dropping his voice a bit, "I need all the warm bodies I can get. I'll keep my eye on him, and maybe encourage him to head to one of our bases, if I feel he can be relied upon to keep his mouth shut. For now, I'm considering this an investment in the future."

Dante relented. "You're right," he conceded. "I should have thought of that. It's not dissimilar to what I've been doing."

Now, the pine forests of Falkreath Hold towered around them. The temperatures were milder here, and there was no snow on the ground, which suited Dante just fine. What didn't suit him was the proliferation of bears, wolves and sabre cats, not to mention frostbite spiders and spriggans.

"Is there _anything_ in this land that _doesn't_ want to kill you?" he complained, after they had dispatched two more wolves.

"The deer are fairly harmless," Marcus offered, wiping his Blades sword down before sheathing it.

"That's not much of a recommendation," Dante said sourly.

"Don't you have wolves and bears down in Cyrodiil?" Marcus asked.

"Of course we do," Dante replied indignantly. "But they're only about half the size! What are you feeding yours?"

Marcus grinned smugly. "Bretons, mainly," he jibed, enjoying the look on his companion's face.

Dante took a breath to retort, but Marcus held up a hand.

"Did you hear that?" he asked suddenly, concern covering his face.

From some distance away, they both heard it this time.

"Somebody," a voice called weakly, "please, help me!"

Even from the road, the two men could tell the victim might not be able to hold out for much longer.

"That way," Dante said, pointing up a dirt path that led away from the cobbled road they were traveling.

"Let's go," Marcus urged.

A few minutes later they reached the end of the path which terminated in a small cave, set into the hillside. A young, fair-haired Nord in studded armor, covered in blood, gestured to them weakly.

"Over here, please!" he coughed. "I need help!"

"By the Nine," Marcus muttered, jumping down off Storm and rummaging in his pack for a healing potion. "Are you alright?"

"I may have lost some blood," the Nord answered, grimacing as he tried to smile.

"May have?" Dante asked with some irony. Healing energy flared in his hands before Marcus found the potion he was looking for.

The young Nord nodded. "Truth is, I'm not going anywhere like this." He coughed again. "It hurts to breathe."

"Easy now," Dante soothed, surprising Marcus. He hadn't thought the Breton rogue had a compassionate bone in his body. But as he watched the Guildmaster channel the peachy-pink glow of Restoration magic into the injured Nord, he began to revise his opinion of the man he knew only as the Grey Fox.

"What's your name, lad?" Dante asked kindly, as the Nord winced.

"Name's Valdr," the young man said, hissing in pain.

"What are you doing out here?" Marcus asked, concerned. "And what happened to you?"

"I'm a hunter, out of Falkreath," Valdr explained. "We tracked a bear to this den. Good coin for those pelts. We had the big sow cornered when they showed up. Three of them, out of nowhere. Spriggans. Niels went down before we even knew to run. Ari died just inside. I never even thought the things were real!" He gave a final sigh as the healing energy began to do its work.

"They're real, alright," Marcus frowned. "I've dealt with them before."

"How does that feel now?" Dante inquired, lowering his hands.

Valdr twisted gently this way and that and smiled. "Much better. Thanks, friend. I wouldn't have lasted much longer without that. But now what? I can't just walk away. Not with my friends' bodies in there, being torn apart by those beasts."

"We'll take care of that for you," Marcus promised, giving Dante a steady look. "You've just been through Oblivion, and you're still in no condition to fight. Stay here and let us handle this."

"You'd do that for a complete stranger?" Valdr breathed, wide-eyed. "I don't know what to say except, _thank you,_ friends!"

Marcus turned without another word and headed into the cave, with Dante close on his heels.

"I don't suppose it would do any good to ask _why_ we're doing this?" the Breton man muttered as they moved cautiously through the tunnel. Marcus stopped and turned to face him.

"This is what I do, Greyshadow," he said evenly. "I'm the Dragonborn. The people of Skyrim call me a hero, and while that's not how I look at it, I won't let them down."

"How _do_ you look at it?" Dante asked.

Marcus shrugged. "I know the Jarl of Falkreath," he said shortly. "He's an unctuous fop more concerned with enriching himself than in protecting his people. We crossed the border into this Hold before midday. How many Whiterun guards did you see on our way down here?"

"Many," Dante answered, frowning. His face cleared. "We haven't passed a single Falkreath patrol," he realized.

"Now you're getting it," Marcus frowned grimly. "The people look to me for help when their Jarls can't – or _won't_ – protect them. I didn't ask to be Dragonborn, but as long as I am, I'm going to use that position to do as much good as I can in this world. And if that means taking out a few bears and spriggans to recover that man's friends, then that's what I intend to do."

The epiphany hit Dante like a giant's club. He could see now why Emperor Titus Mede wanted to adopt this man about whom they knew very little. It made it harder for him to reject him as a candidate, even as he coveted the Ruby Throne for himself. He suddenly felt unworthy, and it was a feeling he didn't like.

"I understand," was all he said, and Marcus gave a curt nod.

"Good," he replied. "Now, let's get in there and clear the place out."

He turned and pushed on further into the cave, with the Breton Guildmaster right behind him. It opened into a grotto, exposed to the sky above, and was filled with lush vegetation and fauna. Rabbits scurried away from them, butterflies flitted from mountain flower to mountain flower, and the earthy-rich smell of decayed wood and fungus hung in the warm air.

Not far from the entrance, they found the body of Valdr's companion Ari. Half of her face had been chewed off, and it was a gruesome sight. Marcus found a large, mammoth-sized leaf and plucked it, placing it over Ari's head – what was left of it. A little further on they found Niels' body, lying on top of a bear he must have killed. There were slashes and sting-marks all over his exposed flesh.

"Spriggans," Dante said. "We have those in Cyrodiil, too. They live in the trees. How are we going to find them and take them out before they're on us like poor Niels, here?"

"Do you have a _Detect Life_ spell?" Marcus asked.

"Uh, no," Dante admitted. "That's one I never learned. But I'm beginning to think there's a gap in my arcane arsenal."

"Might be a good idea to talk to Tamsyn about that when we get back," Marcus grinned. "Oh well, we'll have to do this the old-fashioned way."

He raised his head slightly and stared out into the cavern beyond.

" _LAS YAH NIIR!"_

Instead of a Shout, it was no more than a Whisper, though Dante felt goosebumps prickle his skin from the power of it. He saw no difference in the grotto, but Marcus seemed satisfied.

"Three spriggans," he announced quietly. "One on the ridge back there," he pointed to the opposite side of the grove, "one hiding in that tree by the pond, and the third is up there behind us. We just haven't gotten close enough to piss her off yet."

"Is that all?" Dante asked.

"No," the Dragonborn replied. "There's another bear hiding in the bushes, just up that trail there, across that log and to the right. Other than that, just a few rabbits and a fox. How do you want to handle it?"

"You're asking _me?"_ Dante blurted. "I thought this was _your_ adventure."

Marcus chuckled. "Well, the spriggans won't come out if they don't notice you. So, you'll have to call attention to yourself. I can handle the spriggan and the bear on the other side of the grove if you think you can take out the two spriggans here."

"I can handle them," Dante said confidently. "I have fire at my command. What about you?"

"Oh, I have fire, too," Marcus said smugly. "Just…not as a spell."

Leaving the Breton man to deal with the enemies on this side of the grotto, Marcus edged his way out into the cavern and hugged the right side, crossing the small creek which ran down to the pond, and disappearing into the shrubbery.

Dante backtracked and found a sloping ridge that would bring him closer to the spriggan hiding in her tree. Calling up fire in both hands he rose from his crouched position and spewed flames at the trunk. As expected, the spriggan pulled herself out of the tree and came for him. Leaping lightly off the ridge and down to the cavern floor, Dante turned and launched a fireball in her direction. It hit, and she staggered, but didn't go down. Sending out a swarm of bees ahead of her, she worked her way down the ridge to close with him.

Dante pulled up his hood to protect his head and launched another stream of flames at the spirit of nature before she could reach him with her clawed hands. She staggered again and went to one knee before making a gesture and healing herself, but it was clear she was struggling. One more fireball, and she went down for good, her body going as rigid as an old log, and skittering with the force of his spell across the packed dirt floor of the cave to rest awkwardly near the entrance.

A yip and a growl came from somewhere down by his feet. The fox was glowing an eerie green color, and he realized the spriggan must have recruited it to fight for her. Regretfully, because he liked foxes, he dispatched the small creature, knowing it wouldn't leave him alone if he didn't.

Nodding to himself, Dante crept out of the tunnel to head toward the tree the Dragonborn had pointed out moments before. From somewhere up ahead to his right, he heard a bear roaring and the screeching sounds of claws against dragonplate armor. It was suddenly still, and Dante grinned. He heard branches snapping as the Dragonborn moved through the brush to his next objective. Dante focused on his.

Keeping his hood up for now, he prepared another onslaught of fire in his hands and stood.

Dark as midnight, the spriggan Matron stepped from her tree.

 _Oh, crap,_ Dante thought. _This isn't going to be easy._

Matrons, he knew, were tougher than ordinary spriggans. Their claw attacks could rend a man to shreds in seconds. It was probably how Ari died. He knew his Nightingale armor was tough, but he hadn't brought Void Salts with him to repair it. He'd have to stay out of her reach.

His fireball went off, but the Matron brushed it off and moved quickly towards him.

 _Time for a more direct assault,_ he reasoned, drawing Inferno and his keeping fire in his off hand.

From somewhere off to his right he heard a roared, _"YOL TOOR SHUL!",_ and the back portion of the glade lit up as bright as day.

The Matron paused and glanced that way as a shriek from her child across the tarn echoed around the glade. Dante took advantage of her distraction to whirl, slash and dodge his way around her, slicing deeply and leaving a trail of fire in his wake. The Matron shuddered and glared back at him. Wasps streamed from her clawed hands, but they couldn't get through the tough, enchanted armor. She rushed in to strike at him with her razor-sharp talons, but Inferno was there to block the attack, and its fire burned her to the quick. Shrieking, she leaped backward and ran to the pond to dunk her arm and quench the flames.

Lobbing another fireball after her, Dante sheathed Inferno and drew his bow, backing up as he did so. Two ebony arrows sped across the intervening space, hitting the Matron squarely in the back. Her response was to gesture and heal herself, and Dante ground his teeth in frustration. Two more arrows followed the first volley, but the Matron had recovered enough to come after him again. Another swarm of wasps attacked him, obscuring his vision, and he was forced to back away. His foot caught in a root that almost seemed deliberately to rise up to catch him, and he went down, Inferno slipping from his grasp.

The Matron leaped forward, slashing as she went, and Dante rolled out of the way, ending up on the other side of the path. As he kipped back up onto his feet, he saw the Matron stagger as two more arrows – not his – struck her from behind. Across the stream, Dante saw Marcus lower his bow, a horned weapon that seemed also to be made from dragon bones.

Nodding his thanks, Dante channeled his magicka into a dual-cast firebolt and hit the Matron one more time. Again, she went to her knees, and a final firebolt sent her sprawling against the wall of the cavern.

He pulled the hood back as the swarm of wasps dissipated.

"I heard you Shout a moment ago," Dante commented as he retrieved Inferno. "Is that your _thu'um_? What is it, exactly? And how do you do it?"

Marcus shrugged as he rejoined the Breton Guildmaster. "I can't really explain it," he said. "It has something to do with me being Dragonborn. There's this wellspring of unique energy deep inside me that the Greybeards called my 'vital essences.' They taught me to channel that energy into a _thu'um,_ a Shout in the language of dragons, and by the grace of Akatosh, I'm able to make certain things happen with it."

Dante considered this. "So, it's like a spell, only with your voice instead of your hands."

"Yes and no," Marcus countered. "I can't conjure things out of thin air, like a spell can do; I can't heal with it. But I can slow time, push enemies away, disarm them—"

"And breathe fire, apparently," Dante observed.

Marcus grinned. "I wouldn't be a dragon if I couldn't breathe fire."

Dante returned the grin. "I'll have to take your word for that."

The two men returned to Valdr, who was waiting patiently outside.

"It's safe to go in there now," Marcus told him.

"So, it's done, then," Valdr said sadly. "Justice…if you can call it that."

"Did you need help getting your friends' bodies back to Falkreath?" Dante offered. Marcus did a double-take. He hadn't expected compassion from the Breton rogue, and once more found himself revising his opinion of his traveling companion.

"No," Valdr said, thanking them. "My horse is somewhere nearby. I'll find him and get Ari and Niels home. Look," he continued. "I want you to have this." He offered them a small, steel dagger. "I know it isn't much, but it's important to me. Ari gave me this dagger when we first started hunting together. Always said it brought her luck. You should be the one to carry it now."

Dante looked at Marcus, who gave him a quick nod of encouragement. Dante accepted the dagger and sheathed it at his waist.

"Come find me if you're ever in Falkreath," Valdr saluted them as they mounted their horses. "You'll always be welcome at my door!"

The two men waved as they left the path and returned to the main road.

"And this is what you do," Dante commented soberly.

"Yes," Marcus replied, just as thoughtfully. "This is what I do."

They rode in silence for several miles. The road crossed a bridge near a mill and turned eastward.

"Going out of our way again?" Dante asked, consulting his map.

"We kind of have to," the Dragonborn replied. "The terrain around here is too rugged for the horses to navigate. If we keep to the road that wraps around Lake Ilinalta, we'll connect with the one that leads further south to the town of Falkreath. But before we reach the town, there's a trail that leads west to Cracked Tusk Keep."

"I take it you've been here before?" Dante inquired.

"I've been in the area," Marcus admitted. "But I've never bothered the Orcs at the Keep. I've seen no reason to. They aren't bothering anyone, and just want to be left alone."

"Think they'll give us any trouble about the piece of the Razor we need?"

"They might," Marcus nodded. "I really don't know. We'll have to wait and see."

The sun was already lowering in the west when they finally reached the Orc stronghold known as Cracked Tusk Keep. A lookout up on the wall saw them and immediately went into a defensive posture.

"That's close enough," the lookout warned.

"We'd like to speak to Ghunzul," Dante called back.

"Why?"

"My business is with Ghunzul," Dante insisted. "May we come in and speak with him?"

The Orc gave a derisive snort. "Not a chance, pipsqueak! Ghunzul isn't receiving visitors today. Go peddle your wares someplace else."

Dante bristled, but Marcus laid a hand on his arm. "Let me try," he offered.

"I'm the Dragonborn," he called up firmly. "My friend and I need to speak to Ghunzul. Are you going to go get him, or are you taking root up there?"

"Dragonborn, eh?" the Orc rumbled. "Fine. I'll get him. Just don't get your hopes up."

It was several minutes before Ghunzul appeared. "This had better be worth it, Dreshnak," he muttered as he climbed the steps of the lookout. By now it was almost completely dark. "Who in Oblivion are you two?" he demanded, reaching the top.

"I'm Marcus Dragonborn," Marcus announced. "This is my companion, Councilor de Fer of the Imperial City. We have a matter to discuss with you…privately."

"Say what you need to say from here…Dragonborn," the Orc chieftain sneered. "This is Cracked Tusk Keep, by the grace of Malacath an Orc stronghold. You aren't Orcs, so you aren't welcome here. Say what you have to say and begone!"

 _No one could accuse an Orc of hospitality,_ Dante thought with some irritation. He had known a few in the Imperial City – shopkeepers, mainly – but they were very courteous and polite. Clearly, it was a different story here.

"I'm looking for something," Dante called up. "Pieces to a blade known as Mehrunes' Razor. I was told you have it. I'm willing to purchase it from you."

"You were misinformed, Breton," Ghunzul flatly denied. "I don't have anything like that. Malacath is the only Daedra I follow, so get lost!"

"Look, I _know_ you have it—" Dante began, but Ghunzul growled ominously.

"You calling me a liar, you little fetcher?" he rumbled, drawing his sword. "I've killed men for less than that!"

"You'd find that a very difficult task, I think," Dante frowned, bringing a fireball into his hand.

" _Enough!"_ Marcus thundered. The ground shook alarmingly, and the horses snorted and pranced. "Ghunzul, we're sorry to have been mistaken. Councilor, if you'll come with me?"

Dante fumed, but allowed himself to be led away. The Orcs remained on the wall, watching them until they rounded a shoulder of the hill and disappeared from view.

"Now what?" Dante demanded, furious. "Your fancy title had no effect on him whatsoever. The piece is _there!_ We have it on good authority—"

"I know, I know, okay?" Marcus bit out in frustration. "Just…let me think a moment." He tapped the silver stud earring in his left ear.

"Tamsyn? We have a bit of a problem."

"Your wife isn't here, Dragonborn," Dante said sourly. "And I doubt she would be able to reason with them any better than we did."

"Tamsyn?"

" _Sorry my love,"_ came her voice from the earring. _"I was with Lucia. What's the problem?"_

The look of astonishment on the Breton man's face was well worth the frustration of being in the man's company, Marcus felt.

"How are you doing that?" Dante breathed, incredulous.

Tamsyn's laughter tinkled through the air. _"It's an ear-bud I developed for communicating over distances, Master Greyshadow. I thought Marcus would have given you one by now."_

"I was waiting for the right moment, dearest," the Dragonborn chuckled, pulling one from his belt pouch.

"Explain to me how this works," Dante begged, not even trying to hide his eagerness. If this magical device of the Dragonborn's could do what it appeared to be doing – even from this distance – it opened up a world of possibilities!

"Well, first you need a hole in your earlobe," Marcus said, dubious. He couldn't tell if his companion had pierced ears or not. "Mine hurt like hell for all of a few minutes, and it was tender for several days. It has to heal naturally. I couldn't take any healing potions or use any spells, because that would have healed the hole."

Dante smiled smugly. "I already have pierced ears," he admitted, with no small amount of modesty. "I've had to use disguises now and then that required them…pirates, mainly."

"Why am I not surprised?" Marcus rolled his eyes. "This should work for you, then," he continued, handing the stud over. He waited for Dante to fit it in, then said, "Concentrate on Tamsyn. Imagine she's right here with us, tap the earbud and call her name."

" _I'll have to disconnect from you, Marcus, to take his call,"_ Tamsyn pointed out.

"That's alright, sweetheart," her husband said. "We can talk through Greyshadow."

A short tutorial followed, with Marcus showing Dante how to adjust the volume to allow others to hear, or keep the conversation private.

" _So far I can only talk to one person at a time,"_ Tamsyn informed the Breton Guildmaster, a note of wistfulness in her tone. _"I'm still trying to get it to work for multiple persons at one time, but I'm not having any luck just yet. Now, tell me what's going on."_

Marcus nodded at Dante and let him tell Tamsyn the situation.

" _I'm not surprised Ghunzul denied having the piece,"_ Tamsyn replied when he finished. _"Marcus? You couldn't persuade him either?"_

"No," her husband admitted. "He didn't really give me a chance. Just told us both to bugger off."

The Arch-Mage sighed. _"You'll have to sneak in there, then."_

"How?" Marcus demanded, frustrated. "It's a stronghold. The place is crawling with Orcs. And they've made sure to clear the land in front of it. They'd see us trying to get through the gate."

" _I_ could get in there," Dante muttered. "They'd never see _me."_

" _That's probably what you'll end up having to do,"_ Tamsyn replied. _"But you don't need to go through the front gate. Head around to the west side of the Keep, where it snugs against the mountain. The wall there is crumbling away. You can climb it and follow it down to a set of stairs leading to an entrance to the lower level. It's where you have to go, anyway."_

"You're sure of that?" Dante asked, skeptically.

There was a noise of impatience from the other end. _"What happened to 'I'll never doubt you again, Arch-Mage'?"_

Dante chuckled. "You're right. I apologize. We'll work our way around to the west side and see what's there."

" _Good luck,"_ Tamsyn wished them both before signing off.

The two men slipped into the shadow of the trees a half-mile from the fortress and worked their way around as Tamsyn had instructed them. It took them a good twenty minutes to get close enough to the Keep to see what the Arch Mage already knew – the wall was indeed in sad disrepair. It still towered over their heads, but someone with the right skills might possibly be able to reach the top.

"I don't think you're going to be able to follow me here, Dragonborn," Dante said.

Marcus assessed the condition of the wall and nodded. "I think you're right," he agreed. "My armor is too heavy, and it's an established fact my ability to sneak sucks pond water."

"We might have to work on that," Dante mused. "Alright. I'm going in. If the worst happens and the Orcs find out I'm there, I'm hoping you'll come in and lend a hand."

"I'm not going to bail on you, if that's what you mean," Marcus frowned. "We're in this together. Come on, I'll give you a boost up the wall."

He bent slightly and cupped his hands. Dante stepped into them and was mildly surprised when the Dragonborn practically launched him to the top of the wall. The Imperial was far stronger than he had given him credit for. At the top of the wall Dante crouched and surveyed the area.

Most of Cracked Tusk Keep was in ruins. The towers to his left and right had already collapsed, though it looked as though only the top floor of the south tower had succumbed to time and the weather. The main floor still seemed to be intact. The Orcs had apparently built a wooden palisade around the top of the perimeter walls, but thankfully had missed the spot where Dante perched now. Given the condition of the tower to his immediate left, he could only assume they felt invasion from that direction would be impossible, given its proximity to the hill of stone that rose just behind him. The eastern tower had also fallen in on itself, leaving the south bastion as the only viable living space.

From across the bailey he could hear the ringing of a hammer on steel, and smoke from that direction indicated a forge of some kind, though he couldn't see it clearly from his current position.

Remembering that Tamsyn had mentioned a staircase to a lower level on this side, he crept along the catwalk towards the southern tower. He saw it before he'd gone very far and dropped down silently to the ground. It was a matter of moments to cross to the staircase, descend it to the door and pick the lock. Dante slipped inside and carefully closed the door behind him.

He was in a small room that appeared to be some sort of larder. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, and barrels of potatoes, apples and flour sat against one wall. A cupboard contained some iron cookware and a few items of spare clothing. Another held some bits of iron armor. There was nothing else here of interest. To the right of the door, as he had come in, there was a locked panel next to a set of iron bars closing off a short flight of stairs that led down to a door.

From the other direction, which he could tell led back out to the main part of the stronghold, he heard several Orc voices muttering to themselves.

"…kill him if he talks to me like that again…"

"…that lyin' little harlot! That brat ain't mine!..."

"…need me some skooma…not the cheap kind…the good stuff…"

Dante turned his attention back to the panel and quickly picked the lock. It opened to reveal a button. Pressing this caused the iron bars to recede back into the floor and opened the way to the door down the stairs.

There was another flight of steps through this door, but here all was quiet. Dante breathed a sigh of relief and stood a bit straighter. There seemed to be only one corridor here, extending for some distance under the ruined south tower. Water dripped everywhere, and broken furniture cluttered the side rooms, the first two of which were barred against intrusion. It was a simple matter to find the button to open them up, but except for some minor empty soul gems and alchemical ingredients, there wasn't much here, either.

He found a chest in one corner, after pulling levers on opposite sides of the main corridor. The levers opened interknit sets of bars preventing him from going any further down the passage. The chest contained a tidy sum of gold, which he pocketed, as well as a few gems. He left the iron sword, even though it had a minor enchantment on it. He wouldn't have received much for it, had he tried to sell it, and it weighed too much for him to want to bother.

He saw the tripwire well before he would have triggered it. Giving a mocking grin to its rude simplicity, he cut it and sat back to wait until the poisoned darts stopped flying out of their holes. Twice more Dante deliberately set off the traps, waiting until the way was clear before moving further down the corridor. It had widened beyond the first tripwire into a larger chamber with two rows of central support columns, from which the darts had issued. He found another locked chest in a dark corner to his right and again pocketed the gems and gold. He left the lockpicks. He didn't need them.

A stone plinth at the end of the room caught his attention. Lying in several sharp, broken pieces, the blade portion of Mehrunes' Razor beckoned to him.

It would be so easy to just pick them up, he knew. But Dante was not the Guildmaster of the Cyrodiil Thieves' Guild for nothing, and he hadn't gotten where he was by impulsively rushing forward when a little caution would serve better. He examined the plinth and noticed that it was a balance plate. If he took the shards, the lack of weight would cause the table to rise, triggering another trap.

 _Probably more darts,_ he thought to himself.

There wasn't anything in this room that might weigh the same amount as the shards, he realized, and there was nothing on him he cared to give up to make the quick exchange. Looking around the rest of the chamber he took note of the spiked, rusty iron gate to one side of the plinth. Another tripwire led to this, and Dante deliberate set it off, stepping well back before it slammed open.

Behind the iron gate was a vacant area that wrapped around the last set of pillars, and Dante realized he could reach the shards from this angle. If he was quick enough, he might be able to grab them before the darts spewed out.

Positioning himself carefully, muscles tensed, Dante swiped the shards from the plinth with his gauntleted hands and leaped backward. Instantly a flurry of darts shot forth, imbedding themselves into the plinth and the floor, and Dante congratulated himself on negating this trap. He worked his way carefully back to the larder and listened. Only one Orc was singing now, at the top of his lungs, clearly intoxicated.

" _With three beers down, the Orc did frown,_

 _And bid the Elf goodbye._

 _For none could know, 'twas not for show,_

 _And someone had to die!"_

He was a horrible singer, and Dante cringed. It was small wonder Orcs seldom became bards. He slipped silently out the door, a shadow among other shadows.

Once outside, he crept back to the wall over which he had come to get in. The courtyard was quiet now. The hammering from the forge was stilled, and the Orc look-out was drowsing at his post by the gate. Dante found a set of wooden stairs that took him up to the rampart and made his way back to the gap in the wall, easily sliding down to rejoin Marcus, who stood up upon his arrival.

"Got 'em?" the Dragonborn whispered. Dante nodded and gestured for them to leave. His Imperial companion gave a jerk of his head and led the way back to where they'd left the horses.

"Any trouble?" Marcus asked as they mounted.

"None at all," Dante said confidently. "I told you: they never even knew I was there."

Marcus nodded. "I'm thinking you might be right about one thing," he mused.

"What's that?"

"I could use some pointers on sneaking."

Dante chuckled. "We have plenty of time to work on that before we get to Dead Crone Rock," he grinned.

At this point, they decided, due to the lateness of the hour, to head in the opposite direction to the town of Falkreath to rest for the night. They had been travelling since very early that morning, and both men were tired. Since Falkreath had no stable, they were forced to leave the horses hitched to the posts outside Dead Man's Drink. Dante went inside to secure rooms for the night while Marcus tended to the horses, feeding them, removing their tack and covering them with their blankets against the night's chill.

Inside, Valga Venicia greeted Dante.

"Come on in," she smiled warmly. "Just stoked the fire. Sit down and take a load off your feet."

"Shor's bones!" another girl with a broom purred. "A handsome man in Falkreath!"

Dante hid a private smile. She was attractive, but she was no Saadia. Her revealing attire, however, left little to the imagination.

"Two rooms, please," he requested of Valga.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Valga sighed. "I only have one room left, but it's a double."

"One bed or two?" Dante asked carefully. These things were important.

"Two singles," Valga replied.

"I'll take it," he nodded, handing over the coin.

"Wonderful!" Valga beamed. "I'll show you to your room." She led him off to one side and into a large chamber.

"Uh…where's the door?" Dante asked, disconcerted.

"Ain't no doors here," Valga said cheerily. "Let me know if you need anything else." She returned to the bar.

"I need a door," Dante mumbled, frowning as he debated whether to put his gear unattended in the room. In the end, he decided to keep it with him for the moment and returned to the common area to wait for the Dragonborn.

"Shor's bones!" the barmaid exclaimed again as Marcus entered. _"Two_ handsome – oh, it's _you,_ Dragonborn!" she pouted, and immediately flounced back behind the counter.

Marcus chuckled. "Good evening to you, too, Narri!" he greeted her before joining Dante at the table.

"Bad blood between you and the barmaid?" Dante inquired quietly.

Marcus grinned and shook his head. "Nah," he replied. "Narri comes on to any good-looking guy who comes in here. That's just her way. When I first met her, she attempted to…uh…ingratiate herself with me. I pointed out to her that I was already married to a mage who's the jealous type. She hasn't bothered me since. Did you get us rooms?"

"Room: singular," Dante said sourly. "She only had one left, but fortunately it's got two beds. But there's no door," he complained.

Marcus laughed. "Yeah, Nords are not a modest people, I've found. Many of the inns in the smaller towns have open rooms. It's a communal thing."

"It makes me uncomfortable," Dante grimaced. "I don't like leaving my personal belongings out in the open like that. Just because I am who I am," he added in a low voice, "doesn't mean I wish to be a target of one."

"I don't think you have anything to worry about here," Marcus replied. "Siddgeir doesn't usually roam around at night." His tone was clearly mocking.

"Siddgeir?"

"The Jarl here," Marcus informed him. "The guy's a genuine sleazebag."

"You mentioned that before," Dante commented. "What's he done?"

"It's what he _hasn't_ done," Marcus retorted, keeping his voice low. "You remember my mentioning I was at Helgen?" He shuddered inwardly at the memories. Dante noticed the fleeting expression of horror that crossed the Dragonborn's face. He remembered that the Imperial had somehow managed to survive the horrific attack on the small town by the Dragon God of Destruction known as Alduin, the World-Eater, and he nodded in genuine sympathy. "That was almost three years ago and it still sits in ruins. Siddgeir hasn't done anything to rebuild it, or find survivors. He also had a Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary operating in his Hold not far from here – or he did, until I shut it down. There are several bandit outposts that lie in wait along the roads to waylay innocent travelers. Siddgeir doesn't do anything about it because he gets a cut of the take."

"You know this for fact?" Dante asked.

Marcus nodded. "But since he's the Jarl, and I don't live in his Hold, I can't do much about it, except take out the ones that I find."

"And the people don't take their grievances to him about it?"

"Well, the dead ones don't," Marcus replied grimly. "The people in the town here, and in the outlying villages are doing the best they can to scrape by, while Siddgeir lives in relative luxury. It makes my blood boil, but there's little I can do about it."

"Replace him," Dante suggested.

"Not a good idea at the moment," Marcus said, shaking his head. "For all his faults, Siddgeir is still loyal to the Empire. He replaced his uncle, Dengeir, who followed Ulfric Stormcloak, before I came to Skyrim. Even now that the Civil War seems to be coming to an end, I don't exactly want a firebrand like Dengeir in charge of the only Hold that has trade passages through the Jeralls into Cyrodiil."

Dante nodded in understanding. "Better the Daedra you know…" he mused.

"Exactly," Marcus replied. "Believe me, if there was a better candidate for Jarl, I might see what I could do to get him or her appointed. I'm not without influence."

"I think I appreciate the frustration you must be feeling, then," Dante acknowledged. He pulled out his map. "Where are we headed next?" he inquired. "Where is this 'Dead Crone Rock'?"

Marcus searched the southwestern part of the Reach until he found it and pointed it out.

"That's a long way from here," Dante frowned. "Have you been there?"

"Once," Marcus answered. "A…friend…sent me there to find something I needed."

"So, you've met this Drascua?"

Marcus nodded, a smug smile on his lips.

Dante saw the look, but decided to ignore it. "Think she'll give us any trouble about the Pommel?" he asked.

The smug smile became a knowing grin. "Maybe not," he replied. "But if I know Drascua, she'll probably want something in return for it. I hope you're willing to pay the price."

Dante gave a reassuring smile. "I can be a very charming fellow when I choose to be," was all he said.

* * *

The trip to the far corner of the Reach took them an entire day, with Dante giving Marcus pointers about hiding and moving quietly as they did so.

"These are the basics," he told the Dragonborn. "Keep practicing them until you can do them in your sleep. You may never be as skilled as my…associates…but it might give you an edge."

He examined Marcus' armor. "What enchantments do you have on your equipment?" he asked.

Marcus rattled them off and Dante frowned. "The Muffle charm _should_ make you quieter," he commented, his brow furrowing. "I suppose it's countered by your size and the uniqueness of your armor. I know of no one else who wears armor made of dragon bones."

"Balimund in Riften made it especially for me," Marcus nodded. "Tamsyn enchanted them."

"Let me teach you a spell that might make up the difference," Dante offered, and he taught Marcus a Muffle spell. Marcus was forced to cast it repeatedly when they encountered bandits and wild animals along the road, to keep from being noticed and blowing their cover. By late afternoon, Dante sighed. The Dragonborn would never make a good thief. In a way, he supposed, that was a good thing.

"Well, I suppose that's the best we can expect for now," he said resignedly. "I guess if we get into another situation that calls for stealth, you should let me take the lead."

They crossed the bridge over a small tributary river that ran down to the Karth well after dark, and Marcus made a point of throwing off a Candlelight spell before they reached Hag Rock Redoubt.

"Was that wise?" Dante frowned. "There are still a lot of unfriendlies about."

"If you don't want to be peppered with Reachfolk arrows," Marcus shrugged, "it's the smartest thing to do. They'll see this light and know we're coming."

"That's far enough," a voice ordered out of the darkness. A Reachman stepped out of the shadows near a broken tower.

"See?" Marcus said. Raising his voice, he called out, "I'm Marcus Dragonborn, and this is my companion, Councilor Lance de Fer of Cyrodiil. May we approach?" He made a curious gesture with his hand, in plain view of whomever had their weapons trained on the two men.

The voice chuckled. "You're out late, Dragonborn," the man said. "Is this a social call?"

"Partly," Marcus acknowledged. "I need to speak with Matriarch Drascua. Is she available?"

"I don't honestly know," the Reachman replied. "She'd be up at Dead Crone Rock. But it's late. She may already have retired. Go on up and talk to the Briarhearts. They'll know."

"There are Briarhearts here?" Dante murmured as they made their way up the tower and crossed the bridge.

"Elite guard," Marcus answered, just as quietly. "Ferocious fighters, fortified with the Old Magicks. They volunteer to have their hearts removed so they feel no pain."

"I know what they are," Dante said. "I've encountered them before, but it's been a while. I hope they don't have long memories," he finished with a mutter.

"What do you mean?" Marcus asked, suspicious.

Dante gave the barest shake of his head. "Not here," he hissed. "Just know it wasn't a friendly exchange." He glanced around, checking to see if they might be overheard. "I just hope the Forsworn trust you."

Marcus blew out a breath in frustration. "Call them 'Reachfolk,'" he insisted. "And they _do_ trust me…to a point. I'm their best hope of getting their land back. But you – you're an unknown. The jury's still out on you, so if you've had a past history with them, watch your step."

He turned and headed for a long flight of stairs set into the hillside with his Breton companion trailing behind. Dante had to admit, the sight of so many scantily-clad women was delightful to the eye, but he cynically wondered how much protection their fur armor actually afforded them.

They were met at the top of the stairs by two Briarhearts, who greeting Marcus warmly and eyed Dante with suspicion. Dante did his best not to stare at the gaping holes cut into the men's chests.

"Is Matriarch Drascua available?" the Dragonborn asked them.

"No," one of the 'Hearts replied. "She's already retired for the night. Is this urgent?"

Marcus shook his head. "No, not really," he replied. "It can wait until morning. Is there a place we can sleep?"

"There's a wickiup just down the stairs to the right," the second 'Heart answered. "You can sleep there."

"Thank you," Marcus bowed. "Come on, Greyshadow," he said. "Let's get some shut-eye."

As they settled down for the night, still in their armor, Marcus whispered, "You want to tell me why the Reachfolk might be pissed at you?"

Dante hesitated before replying. "I once pickpocketed a Briarheart," he confessed.

"That's it?"

"I pickpocketed his briar heart," Dante finished.

There was silence for several heartbeats before Marcus responded. "Oh…. _OH!"_

* * *

The Reachfolk were generous in their hospitality, making sure the Dragonborn and his companion broke their fast well. Though regarded with the suspicion the Reachfolk reserved for all strangers, they nevertheless treated Dante with courtesy. Several of the Pillagers and Ravagers outwardly admired his ebony weapons and Nightingale armor.

"The Matriarch will see you now," said one of the 'Hearts they'd seen the night before, and he led them up the stairs into the tower known as Dead Crone Keep. Inside it was dark, but Dante found he could see well enough from the sconces and candles lit here and there. Up the winding stairs they went until they finally emerged at the top out into the open air once more.

Set back against a curved stone wall, carved with glyphs in a language Dante couldn't read, he got his first glimpse of Matriarch Drascua.

 _She's a Hagraven!_ he exclaimed to himself, and was proud not to have blurted it out loud.

Marcus was bowing to the Matriarch, and when the Dragonborn introduced him, Dante did the same.

"So, young Breton," Drascua rasped. "You have come to me as I have foreseen. No accident of desire brought you here to me today."

"Wait, what?" Dante and Marcus exclaimed as one.

Drascua gave a screeching sound, like nails on a blackboard, which for her was laughter.

"You look surprised, Dragonborn?" she chuckled. "I knew before you were born that you would bring this man to me. I also know why you believe you are here," she continued, a frown marring her angular face. "You want the Pommel. You want Mehrunes' Razor."

To his credit, Dante didn't try to deny it. "Yes," he replied. "I do. My question is, what would you like in return for it?"

Drascua cackled again. "You know our ways, young Breton," she grinned. "For eight generations, my foremothers were charged with protecting our piece of the puzzle. 'Keep it out of the hands of the Mythic Dawn,' we were told. And for eight generations, that is what we have done. Now, you want to undo all that."

"I'm not going to turn it over to the Mythic Dawn—" Dante began, but Drascua cut him off.

"Liar," she mocked softly. "In order for the Razor to become whole again, that is exactly what you _must_ do. And for that reason, I am reluctant to let you have the last piece."

She paced in front of the altar table, stained with blood and viscera from previous sacrifices, where the men of the Reach might – if their spirit was strong enough – become Briarhearts. She seemed indifferent to the carnage.

"But there is also the matter of the one who set you upon this mission," she rattled. "The Imperial who calls himself Silas Vesuius. He also seeks to reforge the Razor. But it will never be his. Those who control his actions lie in wait along the road to the city on the shore. You must be careful."

"The Thalmor know about this?" Marcus rumbled, wanting confirmation.

"Indeed," Drascua nodded. "They have watched your every movement, and bide their time until the forging is complete to claim it for the Dominion. You must not let them have it."

"Over my dead and decomposing body," Dante growled.

"Be careful what you wish for," Drascua intoned. "Leave us to talk about this privately, young Breton," she told Dante. "My Briarheart will escort you downstairs while I speak to the Dragonborn."

Dante bristled, but allowed himself to be guided away.

Drascua waited until Dante was once more inside the tower before turning to Marcus.

"Do you know who he is?" she asked.

"I have a pretty good idea," Marcus nodded. "He's Councilor Lance de Fer to Emperor Titus Mede the Second. He pretends to be a dealer of antiques, but he saved Titus Mede's life and was appointed to his position by the Emperor himself. He says his real name is Dante Greyshadow. He's the Guildmaster of the Cyrodiil Thieves' Guild, the Grey Fox, and a Nightingale."

"Then you don't know who he is," Drascua mused.

"What, he has more aliases?" Marcus frowned, puzzled.

"What do you know of House Greyshadow, Dragonborn?" the Matriarch queried.

Marcus shook his head. "Not much. I haven't really delved into Bretonian politics."

Drascua nodded. _"He_ does not know, either," she murmured. "I can sense that."

"With all due respect, Matriarch," Marcus began, proud of himself for not exploding in frustration, "what exactly are you getting at?"

"I will say nothing…yet," she replied cryptically. "Much will depend upon your friend, and what he is willing to do to acquire the Pommel."

"I'm afraid you've lost me, Matriarch," Marcus said helplessly. Drascua chuckled again and patted his arm with one clawed hand.

"It will all become clear shortly, Dragonborn," she grinned. "I have a few preparations to make. Go join your companion, and send my Briarheart to me."

Marcus knew well enough by now not to question a Matriarch of the Reach. He bowed and returned to the lower level of the tower where he found Dante seated quietly at a table, carefully monitored by one of Drascua's Briarhearts.

"The Matriarch needs you," Marcus told the man, who gave one quick nod of his head before leaving.

"What's this all about, Dragonborn?" Dante demanded irritably. "Is she going to help us or not? What did she say to you?"

"Nothing that made any sense," Marcus admitted. "And she said that her assistance would be contingent on what you were willing to do to get the Pommel."

"I'm willing to do quite a lot," Dante admitted, "but it would help if I had an idea what the Matriarch wants in return."

"I'm sure she'll let us know that in her own good time," Marcus shrugged. "For now, we wait."

Dante simmered privately, but put on a good face. "I am a very patient man," he said.

It was almost an hour later before they were summoned back into Drascua's presence. When they climbed back to the top of the tower and the hilltop which adjoined it, Marcus could see the altar table in front of the Word Wall had been cleared. Now the only thing resting on it was a large bowl that steamed of its own accord. An unusual scent of herbs and oils drifted towards them on the light breeze that carried down from the Dragontail Mountains to the west.

"Come closer," Drascua beckoned, and the two men approached, one with confidence, the other with caution.

"Now," the Matriarch said, "we will get to the bottom of this mystery. Stand over here by me, Dragonborn," she invited.

"Mystery?" Marcus blinked, doing as he was bid. "What mystery?" He loved a good mystery. He could never resist them. If he had a failing, that would be it.

Drascua chuckled. "The mystery of your friend's identity," she intoned, adding herbs to the brew.

"I know my identity," Dante snapped. "I just don't care to announce it to all and sundry."

"Yes," Drascua crooned, stirring the bowl with the claws of her right hand. "But why? Why go to the trouble to create alias after alias, hm?"

"It keeps my enemies off balance," Dante said thickly. What was in that potion she was brewing? Why couldn't he move?

 _This was a trap! I have to leave!_

He attempted to move and found he could not. He toppled, but the Briarheart behind him caught him, and placed him almost tenderly on a chair brought up by the second 'Heart.

"What…have…you done…to me…?" he managed to get out.

"Nothing harmful," Drascua soothed, still stirring. She picked up a fan made of her own feathers and waved the vapors towards Dante. "We need to cut through the veils of time, to find out who you are."

"I…know…who…I…"

Speech became more difficult, and his vision was warping, distorting. Images darted through his mind. He knew each and every one of them. He saw himself becoming a Nightingale, but before that he had been named Guildmaster. He was going back through his own life. He was rising in the ranks at the Guild; he had just arrived in the Imperial City, a scared, starved kid of sixteen, barely able to defend himself, and being recruited by the Grey Fox himself.

"Who are you?" a woman's voice cajoled. He couldn't tell where the voice originated.

"I'm Lance…no, I'm Dante…Dante Greyshadow…"

"And who was your father?"

"…Edwyn…Greyshadow…of…House…Greyshadow…"

"Tell me more about yourself," the voice persuaded.

And in spite of a small voice in the back of his mind protesting otherwise, Dante found himself doing just that.

* * *

 **4** **th** **Era, Year 180**

"Nonna," the small, dark-haired boy began, "who is my Papa?"

The middle-aged woman stopped, elbows deep in the washtub where she was scrubbing a pair of trousers. Nonna often took in washing to help make ends meet.

"Why d'ye want to know, young master?" she asked. She almost always called him that, when she didn't actually call him by name. He had never questioned it.

"Some of the boys said I was a bastard," little Dante said now. "When I told them I didn't know what that meant, they said some things I didn't understand, and told me I had no papa."

Nonna frowned. "Hmph! Some of those 'aven't got a lot o' room to talk," she simmered.

"But who is my Papa?" Dante insisted. "I know my Mama's dead, you told me that already, but you never told me who my Papa was."

"Come here, young master," Nonna said, leaving the trousers in the tub, and drying her hands and arms on her already soaking apron.

Dante came over and allowed himself to be folded into her embrace. Nonna was the one constant thing in his world, and at the tender age of six, in the tumultuous city of Wayrest, constancy was in short supply. He knew she wasn't his mother; she'd told him so when he was old enough to understand. She was his nurse, she said, and she would take care of him.

"Now then," she began, "I don't want you to be worried about anything, understand? Your Papa is…well, he's someone important here, but he—" Here Nonna broke off, slightly embarrassed. "He was never married to your Mama…not in a proper Temple, anyway. She was a fine lady, your Mama." Nonna's eyes misted over, remembering. "She would have loved you so much, if she could have survived, but she was never made for having babies."

"Couldn't the healers make her well?" Dante asked. He felt no emotions for his dead mother. He had never known her. Nonna was the only motherly figure in his life.

"No, my little master, they couldn't," Nonna said sadly. "That's why I brought you here, to High Rock. I thought your Papa would take care of you." Her voice hardened a little. "And he does, just not the way I'd hoped."

Dante nodded. There was money that came in each month. A man in black and silver armor delivered it and would say, "From his Lordship," before leaving as quickly as he could. He never stayed to talk, and never asked after Dante. Nonna would get that hard look on her face, then shrug her shoulders and turn back to whatever it was she had been doing before he came.

"Jerome said the black and silver is worn by the Greyshadows," Dante told his nurse now. "Am I a Greyshadow?"

Nonna's mouth compressed. "No, young master," she said. "You're not. You don't have a claim to any name, because your Papa doesn't recognize you."

"Maybe if I go to him and tell him who I am, then he'll know," Dante offered. Nonna shook her head.

"Your Papa is married to another lady," she told him. "And he has two boys, older than you. He won't admit you're his son."

Dante was stricken. His Papa didn't want him? Not ever? Mortified, he extricated himself from Nonna's arms and went into the shack behind them. There were only two rooms: the main chamber, and a smaller sleeping room to one side. Dante laid himself down on his pallet and stared at the stone wall. So, this was what Jerome and the other boys meant. To be a bastard meant he had no name, no family, and no right to call his father 'Papa.' It was a harsh lesson for a child to learn but learn it he did. He never cried over the loss he felt, and he never spoke of it to Nonna again.

The years passed, and both Dante and Nonna grew older. When he was twelve, a letter came with the money. On the parchment were five words. _"Send the boy to me."_ That was it. There was nothing else.

"I'm not going," he told his nurse.

"Now, young master, don't talk like that," Nonna insisted. "He's sent for you. You _have_ to go."

"Why?" Dante demanded, shaggy dark hair falling into his eyes. "He hasn't given flying skeever's backside about me since I was born. Why should I care what he has to say?"

"This isn't about him," Nonna said sternly. "It's about _you_ , and the opportunity this gives you to get out of this stinkhole we live in. You may not like the man your father is. You don't have to like him. All you have to do is listen to what he has to say and learn from it. Find something in this situation you can take to heart and make your own. That's all."

Dante glared sullenly at the floor, but he knew she was right.

"Fine," he muttered. "But he'd better still take care of you, or he'll have to answer to me!"

He didn't want the money to stop coming to Nonna, even though she would no longer be taking care of him.

Nonna had merely smiled before preparing the large wooden tub for his bath. She waited outside while he filled it with kettles of hot and cold water and scrubbed himself clean. She helped him dress in the fine clothes that had arrived while he was bathing. Made of black velvet and embroidered with silver, emblazoned with the crest of the Greyshadow family, he could see it was a page's uniform. The significance of this wasn't lost on him. He was to be a page for his own family.

He arrived at his father's manor house in the northern part of town, in the company of the two guards sent to escort him. They left him at the door in the care of a Chamberlain, who took him to an interior room and left him, bidding him to 'wait there.' Looking around, Dante realized he was in a study, or library of sorts. He knew how to read – Nonna had seen to that – but he had never seen so many books in one place in his short life. Reading had always been an escape for him, and his fingers itched to stroke the leather bindings and caress the parchment pages.

"So," a voice behind him interrupted, "you've arrived. Let's look at you then. Turn around."

Dante squashed his rebellious temper and did as he was bid, turning to face the man who had a part in bringing him into the world. Edwyn Greyshadow was a tall, imposing man with dark red hair streaked with white, a neatly-trimmed beard and moustache, and a brooding manner. His deep blue eyes took in every detail of the sullen boy in front of him. If he was dissatisfied with what he saw, he never revealed it.

"Here is how your life will be," he began without preamble. "You are a member of my household, serving House Greyshadow, but you will not be living here. My…wife…has objections. You will be sent to the Palace as a page, there to learn whatever your mind can comprehend about Palace life. I don't anticipate it to be much. If you apply yourself, you'll do well. If you don't, it will be your own fault. You represent House Greyshadow while you're there, so try not to disappoint. You are not, under any circumstances, to acknowledge your relationship to me. If you do, you will be sent away to the most gods-forsaken corner of Tamriel I can think of. Any questions?"

"No," Dante answered.

"No, what?" Lord Greyshadow glared.

"No, my lord," Dante replied, casting his eyes down.

"That's better," his father approved. "Forgetting the proper form of address can shorten your life. Remember that."

"Am I dismissed, my lord?" Dante asked, proud of himself for not lacing the question with sarcasm.

"You have my permission to go," Lord Greyshadow answered. "The guards will escort you to the Palace and present you to the King there. You're expected, so don't delay."

Dante jerked his head in a nod and strode to the door.

"One more thing," Lord Greyshadow said to his retreating back. Dante paused, and slowly turned around. Lord Greyshadow's face was suddenly overlaid with sadness. "You're the very image of your mother," was all he said. "Go now."

Dante left and met up with the guards who took him to the Palace of the King of High Rock. There his life truly began. In the years that followed he learned the ins and outs of court intrigue; he learned to listen, watch and prepare himself for a knife in the back at any time. He learned all the secret ways of the Palace, and of the tunnels under the city.

He was fourteen when the corsairs attacked Wayrest. He crept out of the city through those very tunnels with the King's entourage, making it safely outside enemy lines where the King and his company left all non-essential personnel – Dante included – to their fate while they made their escape. Dante returned to the tunnels and made his way to the poorer district, emerging only a few streets away from the shack in which he'd grown up. Nonna was still there, and at first refused to unbar the door until he convinced her it was really him. He smuggled her out of the city and with her guidance, they made their way to his father's country estate, where Lord Greyshadow had retreated.

At first, Lady Greyshadow adamantly refused to permit her husband's bastard to live there. The old nurse could stay if she made herself useful, but she was not providing a roof for one of Edwyn's by-blows. Lord Edwyn insisted it would only be until things calmed down in Wayrest, but Lady Hestelle was unconvinced. Two weeks later, she was found in her garden with an arrow through her heart. Suspicion fell on Dante, but his brothers, Vallyn and Lorentus, insisted he'd been with them at the time of their mother's death, as determined by the healers.

Edwyn ordered a sweep of his property, but nothing was discovered.

Soon after this, the King of High Rock rallied his troops and took back his city. As soon as everything quieted down, Lord Edwyn returned to his duties in Wayrest, and Dante returned to the Palace. Six months later, Lorentus was found stabbed to death in the temple where he had stopped to pray. It was a scandal that lasted for weeks. No one, of course, had seen anything, and both Vallyn and Dante were devastated. Lorentus had always been the happier, more care-free of Lord Greyshadow's sons, always making Vallyn and Dante laugh; and now he was gone. Vallyn became more withdrawn and morose, constantly looking over his shoulder. Dante began making subtle inquiries.

When he felt he had enough evidence, he sought out his father.

"It's House Montrose," he told Lord Edwyn.

"You're certain of this?" his father asked.

"My sources tell me—"

"Sources will tell you what you want to know," his father reprimanded him. "I can't go to the King and point an accusing finger without some kind of documentation to back me up. Hearsay alone isn't enough. You should know this by now; you've been at court long enough."

"They killed Lorentus!" Dante exclaimed. "They probably killed Lady Hestelle, too. Aren't you going to do anything about it?"

"Not without proof," his father said firmly. "And you don't have it."

"Then I'll get it," Dante swore, and strode off. He never saw the look of pride his father gave his back.

Finding proof – actual, written proof – was much harder than Dante had anticipated, however, and his duties at court didn't give him much time off to pursue it. Vallyn died before he was able to do much more than narrow down his list of possible suspects. Losing his oldest son was harder for Lord Edwyn than losing his second. All his hopes for the future of House Greyshadow had hinged on Vallyn. For Dante, it meant everything suddenly changed.

"Someone is attempting to eliminate our family," Lord Edwyn told him privately. "You are my only son now."

"But I'm just your bastard, sir," Dante reminded him. "And an unrecognized one at that. You've never told anyone who I am, and neither have I. No one will care about me."

"I intend to formally recognize you at court," his father said, surprising him.

"And paint a target on my back?" sixteen-year-old Dante blinked. "Gee, thanks a lot!"

"The family must survive," his father insisted. "You are the only one who can inherit."

"I'm not so sure of that," Dante said drily. "It seems you've got a cousin, Sir Hugh of Montrose. I told you before that someone told me House Montrose was behind the assassinations. You didn't believe me then."

"I did not say I didn't believe you," Lord Edwyn reminded him. "I merely said you didn't have proof. Have you obtained proof?"

"No," Dante scowled, furious.

"Then we cannot accuse him," Lord Edwyn said mildly. "Though between you and I, I believe myself that he might be behind the attacks."

"So, we're just going to sit here in Wayrest, at the Palace, and let him pick us off?" Dante demanded angrily.

"No," his father replied. "I said I would formally recognize you, but I wish to wait until Sir Hugh makes his move to claim the Greyshadow title and lands and have me name him as my heir."

"I think that's a bad idea, sir," Dante said respectfully. Life at court had taught him respect for those who outranked him, at the very least. "I haven't managed to find proof of their involvement yet, and you're just offering them another target."

"How would you handle it?" Lord Edwyn asked shrewdly, surprising him.

"We go visit your cousin," Dante suggested. "Tell him something along the lines of, 'In these troubled times family must stick together.' That sort of thing. Let him think you're going to name him your heir. I'm just a page in your employ. While you keep him busy, I sift through his desk to see what I can find."

"That is a base, underhanded idea," Lord Edwyn frowned. "There is no honor in that at all. Is that what you've learned at court?"

"Is there honor in letting yourself and your family get wiped out because of another man's greed?" Dante countered. "You've lost your wife and both your sons, sir. You tell me I'm the only son you have left, but you won't listen to the one idea that might get us the proof that he's conspiring against you in order to inherit."

"I'll have no part in this, Dante," his father insisted. "We will do this my way. I will announce to the court next week that you are my heir. Let him try something then!"

Dante shook his head. No good would come from this, he was certain.

In the end, he was right. Two hours before Lord Edwyn would make his announcement, he was murdered in a back corridor of the Palace. The assassins escaped. Seeing a much broader target on his own back, so did Dante. Slipping through the tunnels and back-alleys he knew so well by this time, he headed back to the manor home of the Greyshadows only to find it surrounded by Montrose men. Ducking back into the alley, he realized there was no chance of getting through the barricade of armed men alive just to retrieve his personal belongings.

"I don't need 'em that badly," he thought, and eased silently away. His one regret was leaving Nonna behind, but he knew she'd be safer without him around.

The town criers were on every corner, declaring the news that yet another tragedy had befallen House Greyshadow, this time with the death of its patriarch Lord Edwyn. The prime suspect was a young page of sixteen who had been a protégé of Lord Greyshadow's, but who had now fled the scene of the murder. He was known only as 'Dante,' and it was now suspected he may have had a hand in the other deaths in the family.

"I think the climate here is becoming decidedly unhealthy," Dante muttered to himself. "Time for a change of scenery."

The Harbormaster refused to allow him on board any of the ships in the bay without the proper fare, and Dante had no coin on him. Wandering among the crates, barrels and bales, he waited until it was nearly dark, then crept quietly on board an Imperial ship headed for Anvil in Cyrodiil. If he was caught, he would be keel-hauled, or worse. Dante didn't intend to get caught. He quietly made his way belowdecks to the rat-infested orlop on the lowest level and found a place to hide. The journey to Cyrodiil was a nightmare he hoped never to repeat. A storm at sea threatened to capsize the ship, but the diligence and expertise of the crew kept them from going under, while Dante clung to the ribs of the ship and prayed to the Nine that he would be spared.

When at last they made port, Dante continued to hide in the shadows of the bowels of the ship until all was relatively quiet. No one saw the young Breton lad as he emerged, not in Anvil, as he had thought, but in the Imperial City itself. This was a stroke of luck! There were far more opportunities here than in Anvil!

However, without coin, food, or references of any kind, he soon realized it would be nearly impossible for him to obtain employment. He resorted to stealing and slept in a far corner of a park-like area near the arena. That's where the Grey Fox found him, nearly a week later.

"You're pretty good at this," the older man grinned under the cowl that covered most of his face.

Dante started. He hadn't seen the man hiding behind the bushes where he normally slept.

"Who are you?" he demanded, grabbing a stick off the ground and holding it out defensively in front of him. "I'm just a beggar," he continued. "I've got nothing, so if you're looking to rob me, you're looking in the wrong place."

"And yet you're prepared to defend yourself for the little you have," observed the masked man. "That's good. That's very good. You've got spirit, lad. I've been watching you since you arrived in the City."

"What do you want from me?" Dante demanded again, though he was less certain his life was in danger, now. This man had offered no threat so far.

"The question, young man, is what do _you_ want?" The brown eyes behind the mask twinkled. Dante lowered his stick. "I'm guessing you probably want food right about now, so why don't we go someplace where I can get you something to eat, and we can talk."

Dante felt his stomach rumble in a most inelegant manner and rubbed it absently. The man in the cowl chuckled and gestured with his hand. "Follow me, lad."

And follow him Dante did. Into the Thieves' Guild and up a ladder of success he hadn't known existed. He made mistakes at first. Sneaking and lockpicking seemed to come easily to him. Pickpocketing, less so. The second time he was caught he wasn't able to escape and was thrown into the dungeons of the Imperial City. The Guildmaster, the one known as the Grey Fox, had to come and break him out.

"It was clumsily done, lad," the older man scolded him. "I'm starting to wonder if I was wrong about you."

"You're not wrong, Guildmaster," Dante pleaded. "Please don't throw me out of the Guild. I don't have any place else to go!"

"Who said anything about throwing you out?" the Grey Fox queried. "This isn't the Mages' Guild; that's not our way. No," he continued thoughtfully. "I'm just wondering if you might be in the wrong line of work, that's all."

"But I promise I'll try harder," Dante insisted. "I can be a good thief, I know it!"

"There are thieves, and there are thieves, Dante, my lad," the Grey Fox told him. "Some of us are excellent pickpockets, others are better at breaking and entering; still other excel at numbers, sweeps, shills or heists. Damn few of us are good at all of those and more." He grinned smugly. "I'm one who is, or I wouldn't be Guildmaster. No," he continued thoughtfully, "we just need to find your niche – the one thing you're really good at – and exploit it."

It took some time, but Dante found his niche: antiquities. His knowledge of antiques and artifacts from a lifetime of reading was better than anyone else in the Guild. When sent on sweep jobs with a partner, he always came back with the most valuable items. He worked on forgeries, as well, and was soon able to manufacture documents with seals and signatures that were very difficult to tell from the real thing.

"I'm going to set you up with a front," the Grey Fox told him one day. He had just turned twenty-four, and his Guildmaster had joked about what to give him for a birthday present.

"What kind of a front?" Dante asked eagerly. This was a great honor! Having a front meant having an alter-ego, a respectable identity from which to operate out in the open as a legitimate man of business.

"Since you know so much about antiques and all," his mentor said, "I'm going to open a shop in the Market District for you. You can sell legitimate goods there, but you'll also be expected to take in items we…acquire…in other ways and places. You'll be expected to keep two sets of books…one at the shop and one here. The one you'll keep here will inventory the purloined items so we don't accidentally sell them in the same town or Province where they came from, understand?"

Dante nodded.

"Good," the Grey Fox said, satisfied. "It only remains for you to choose a name that I can put on the register of merchants at their Guild."

Dante thought about this for several moments. "Lance de Fer," he said finally.

The Grey Fox was puzzled. "Why that name?"

"Back in High Rock, where I'm from, a fer de lance is a poisonous snake," Dante explained. "It's small, silent and very deadly. You could be right next to one and not know it's there until it strikes. By then, it's too late."

"I like it," the Grey Fox chuckled. "Lance de Fer, it is, then."

What came in the years that followed was the most prosperity Dante had seen in his entire life. If the citizens of the Imperial City thought the young Breton merchant too young to appreciate antiques and rare items, he soon proved them wrong. He threw himself into learning all he could of valuable art, Daedric artifacts and rare items of magical power. The Mages Guild soon took notice and attempted to discredit him, but Dante persevered, and always made sure he knew what he was talking about before he declared an item's value. His job as a fence was lucrative for both sides, but he always made sure to handle those jobs in secret, away from his shop, and his reputation as an honest merchant remained untarnished, despite efforts from the Dominion-run Mages Guild.

One day, nine years after joining the Guild, the Grey Fox took him to his private office and gestured for Dante to be seated. He'd been here before, of course, but on this occasion the Guildmaster was somber and contemplative as he studied the young man before him.

"I've been very pleased with your progress, Dante," the Grey Fox said. "I don't imagine you ever guessed you would do so well in the company of thieves. You've come a long way in this organization, and you still have a lot more you can accomplish. You've been an asset to our little Guild here, and I think it's time we start looking at your future."

"My future?" Dante blinked. "I should think it's pretty rosy right now. Our Guild is making money hand-over-fist, and Serpentine Antiquities is showing a profit on both books."

"True," his Guildmaster admitted. "But we have to plan ahead. It isn't easy running a Guild of this size, and I'm not as young as I used to be. I need to think about who will succeed me."

"I thought Garibaldi had that honor," Dante remarked drily. He didn't much care for the Imperial thief. He was too brash and puffed up with his own importance within the Guild. He was one of the best pickpockets Dante had ever seen – he would give the man credit for that – but pickpocketing alone wouldn't run the Guild. And Garibaldi liked to drink…too much. A Guildmaster, if he was a good one, needed to keep a clear head.

"Did he tell you that?" the Grey Fox smirked. "No, don't answer that. I'm well aware of Garibaldi's ambitions. Just know that I never intended for him to succeed me."

The wheels in Dante's mind were whirling. "You mean for me to take over, don't you?" he asked, though it was really more of a confirmation.

"I do," his Guildmaster nodded. "You've got a quick mind. You're good with numbers – and I don't just mean cooking the books. You're knowledgeable about a lot of things, and you keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut when you need to. The only thing you're lacking at the moment is something that's easily remedied: you need to strike a bargain with Nocturnal. If she agrees, you'll become that much more powerful, and I'll feel that much better about turning the Guild over to you."

"Turning it over?" Dante echoed. "I thought we'd be carrying you out of here feet first."

His Guildmaster laughed. "Not a chance! I've spent a lifetime accumulating some personal wealth – a lot of it, in fact. I intend to retire somewhere where I can enjoy the days I have left in peace and comfort."

Unfortunately, the Grey Fox's luck ran out soon after, before he could take Dante to the Twilight Sepulcher to strike the bargain with Nocturnal. His death during what should have been a routine break-in shook the Guild to its core; Dante had been with him and heard the trip-wire snap as the Guildmaster approached the safe in the basement of a large manor home occupied by a Council member. He grabbed his mentor to throw him aside, but it was too late. Dozens of poisoned needles pierced the Grey Fox and he died in Dante's arms.

Somehow – he was never sure exactly how he managed it – he brought the Guildmaster's body back to their headquarters under the Imperial City. Mikah, a Nord thief who had been with the Guild longer than any could remember, declared he would not accept the mantle, even though he had been the Grey Fox's second-in-command.

"I'm too old now," he said. "You should all take a vote and get someone younger to lead us. We need that strength and energy."

Garibaldi stepped up immediately and began to badger, harangue and cajole the others into voting for him. Dante remained quiet. He was still a relative new-comer, having only been with the Guild a dozen years or so. It was Reydin who actually suggested his name, but Garibaldi's supporters were numerous and loud. In the end, Wellesley Civette, a Breton from Daggerfall, had been chosen as the new Guildmaster. He seemed to be the bridge that connected the hot-heads who followed Garibaldi to those of cooler minds like Dante. He wasn't the best Guildmaster they could have chosen, Reydin often said, but he did the best he could do.

It was Mikah who contacted Dante shortly thereafter and helped him negotiate the terms of his contract with Nocturnal, to become a Nightingale. Wellesley was never considered, and oblivious to the honor he had missed.

"You'll need to pick someone else, once you're comfortable with this," Mikah told him. "There needs to be a Trinity of Nightingales here in Cyrodiil. I am one; you are now one; and Faldas Severin is the third. But I will be retiring soon. My thieving days are behind me now. I had intended to retire when Praxus did."

"His real name was Praxus?" Dante blinked, and gave a rueful laugh. "I don't think I ever knew that."

"No one did," Mikah grinned, "except me. He hated the name, but it was a family one, so he couldn't really give it up. It's why he preferred 'Guildmaster,' 'Grey Fox' or simply 'Boss.'"

Mikah did retire, and Dante picked Reydin Glane to succeed him. Shortly after that, Faldas Severin lost his life in a shipwreck on his way back to Solstheim to visit family. Dante picked a street urchin by the name of Minnow to be the third member of the Trinity. She was young, but incredibly smart, and had an extremely good head for numbers.

Under the leadership of Guildmaster Wellesley – who was no Grey Fox and never wore the Cowl – the Guild muddled along. Dante did what he could, but even he could tell that things weren't going well. In retrospect, he realized that the downhill slide seemed to originate about the time Mercer Frey in Skyrim absconded with the Skeleton Key of Nocturnal. At the time, however, no one knew why their luck seemed to have abandoned them. Nocturnal herself remained silent.

A few short years later, Wellesley Civette stepped down. "I'm not really the best person for this job," he admitted. "I've done what I can, but times are changing, and the Guild needs to change with it, or we're sunk." He named Dante as his successor, which made Garibaldi howl.

"Some of us have been here far longer!" he groused. "Why pick him?"

"This isn't some kind of prize for perfect attendance, Garibaldi," Wellesley said sternly. "Dante might not have been with us for decades, like you, but he's certainly shown initiative. And the Grey Fox saw something in him that bodes well for our organization. It's just too bad he didn't declare Dante his successor before he died, or we could have avoided the last few years of struggle. I didn't want this job in the first place, but you forced my hand when you stepped up and insisted on a vote. I knew most of the Guild would side with you, unless I put my name in. Now we'll have no more of this kind of talk. Accept it or move to Skyrim and join Mercer Frey's group."

Garibaldi fumed, but subsided.

From there it was one success story after another. The last two years had seen a return to the glory days of the Guild, and Dante realized it was because Nocturnal's Key had been restored and her Guilds were back in her favor. Life was good.

* * *

Dante blinked and squeezed his eyes to clear his vision. The Matriarch, Drascua, and the Dragonborn were gazing at him.

"How do you feel, young Greyshadow?" Drascua rasped.

"What did you do to me?" he demanded weakly. He realized his limbs seemed to have gone to jelly. He was only vertical because the Briarhearts were holding him up.

"I did nothing," the Matriarch chuckled. "You remembered everything yourself. It was…enlightening."

"Do you have any idea how long it took me to forget most of that?" he growled.

Drascua screeched a laugh. "You'll thank me when this is over," she soothed. "Now, in a moment or two you should be able to get up and move around again. In fact, I will insist that you do. The more circulation you get back into your body, the faster the effects of the vapors will diminish."

"Why did you drug me?" Dante scowled. He glared at Marcus. "And why did you let her?"

Marcus shrugged. "I'm wise enough not to get between a Matriarch and her rituals," he deadpanned, and Drascua cackled again.

"Smart man," she approved. Then her face cleared. "To be honest with you, young Greyshadow, I needed to be sure you were the one in my vision. If it's any consolation to you, you are."

Dante pulled a face. "With all due respect, Matriarch, that doesn't tell me a whole hell of a lot."

"As I said, it will all become clear," she assured him. "Now, get up and walk. Help him," she directed the 'Hearts.

After several minutes, the Breton Guildmaster shook off the two Briarhearts and managed to walk – albeit unsteadily – on his own.

"Now, Master Greyshadow," Drascua said. "We come to the point of all this. You want the Pommel of Mehrunes' Razor. I'm inclined to give it to you, but I need something from you first."

"And what is that?" Dante asked, breathing a little too heavily from his exertions. _What was in that crap?_ he fumed to himself.

"I need your blood."

Beside her Marcus started. Dante's eyes narrowed. "Why?" he demanded.

"You know who you are," the Matriarch shrugged. "Or at least, you think you do. Your blood, and the Old Magicks will tell you who you _truly_ are. And whether you have any family still living."

"Why should I care about that?" Dante scoffed. "House Greyshadow is dead and gone. It died with my father and half-brothers."

"I was not speaking of your father's side," Drascua replied mildly. "I speak of your mother."

"My mother died when I was born," Dante dismissed. "You heard me spew my guts out there in your little ritual. I have no idea who she was. They only person who could tell me was left behind in High Rock."

With a pang of guilt that lanced sharply through him, Dante realized he had no idea if Nonna was still alive. He had spent so many years burying the past that he had forgotten about the one woman who had cared for him unselfishly through the most difficult time in his life.

"Your blood will tell," was all Drascua said.

"I repeat," Dante insisted. "Why should I care? It's in the past."

The Matriarch shrugged. "Do you want the Pommel or don't you?" she asked cryptically.

Dante sighed. "Fine, then," he said resignedly. "If this is what it takes to make the exchange, then I'll do it. How much do you need?"

Drascua cackled. "Not much," she smiled. "A drop or two. Let it fall into the bowl. Come, stand by me over here."

Dante did as he was bid.

"Hold out your palm," she instructed him. Dante removed his gauntlet and held out his hand over the bowl. With one razor-sharp claw, Drascua sliced a line across his palm. Dante never flinched, even as several drops of blood fell into the bowl, turning the contents a milky pink.

The Matriarch pressed a light healing spell into his hand, and Dante replaced his gauntlet.

"Now," directed Drascua, "both of you, come here. Gaze into the bowl and we will see what the Old Gods deign to share with us."

The pink miasma eddied and swirled, and somewhere in the middle, images began to emerge. They cleared and focused on a man Dante knew well – Titus Mede the Second. But it was the Titus Mede he had seen scowling out at the world from the portrait in the Emperor's private chambers.

"Who is that man?" Marcus asked. Dante gave a wry chuckle.

"That, my dear Dragonborn, is your Emperor, though he appears to be much younger here."

Marcus gave a nodding shrug. "I've never seen him, so I didn't know."

Titus Mede was holding a piece of parchment in his hands reading something that had apparently made him very angry. Though they could not hear what was being said, it was clear he was upset, as he began issuing orders, and his inner circle were scurrying to comply. The parchment fell on the desk, and the image zeroed in on it.

 _"Father, please forgive me, but I cannot remain here, now that you've sent my love away. I know that you do not approve, and I know that I cannot marry him, as he is already wed to another, so I have decided to start a new life away from court. By the time you get this letter, I will be gone. Don't try to find me, and don't punish Edwyn. He doesn't know I'm leaving. Your loving daughter, Lucinda."_

"The date on that letter," Dante mused. "It's about seven months before I was born."

"Lucinda knew she was with child from her lover," Drascua rasped, "and that her father would not have approved, so she ran away."

The scene faded, only to be replaced by another.

A young, dark-haired girl with pain-filled grey eyes was in the final throes of childbirth, a middle-aged Breton woman assisting her. The girl could have been Dante's sister, they were so alike. But she wasn't.

"That's Nonna," Dante murmured, gesturing to the Breton woman. "My nurse. She's the one that raised me."

It was clear that the young mother was having difficulty. The images focused on her face, and it was heart-breaking to see her in such duress. The older woman finally brought a swaddled bundle up to her that she kissed weakly and mouthed one word that they could all clearly understand.

 _"Dante."_

She closed her eyes and relaxed, and the older woman began weeping openly, holding the infant close to her.

The images faded and pulsed, clearing once more.

Nonna was writing a letter, with the infant Dante in a rocker cradle at her feet. With the ease of long practice, one foot was gently working the cradle as she wrote. On the table next to a lit candle was a signet ring, and Dante gave a start. Marcus lifted an eyebrow and gave him a look of curiosity, but the Breton Guildmaster did not elaborate.

Nonna sanded her letter and held it up to review it. They were able to read it clearly.

 _"Your Majesty, it grieves me to inform you of the death of your daughter, the Princess Lucinda. She died of a fever that none of the healers could cure. I return to you her ring, and offer you my sincerest sympathies. Please do not judge the Princess too harshly. She only wished to see something of the world, and felt she could not do that living in the White Gold Tower. –Clarice."_

She folded the letter carefully, but did not seal it yet. Sighing, she stared down at the tiny baby and seemed to come to a decision. Taking up the ring with the tongs from the fireplace, she held it in the flames for several minutes. Moving back to the baby, she unswaddled his left arm and, to the horrified gaze of the Dragonborn, pressed the red-hot ring to the soft, pink flesh. They could not hear, but the baby's once-peaceful face was a howling mask of pain and outrage. Nonna set the ring aside and picked up the baby to comfort him.

"She branded him!" Marcus cried with shocked indignation.

"Indeed," was all Drascua said, piercing the Breton Guildmaster with her beady black eyes.

Dante said nothing, but removed his gauntlet once more. With his ungloved hand, he unbuckled the armor at the left shoulder and shrugged it down. On his bare upper arm was a small brown scar. It was faded and old, and at first Marcus didn't recognize what he was seeing.

"Nonna told me I burned myself when I was little," Dante said quietly. "I never questioned her."

"She burned you with the ring," Drascua murmured. "The only way to prove who you truly were."

Marcus looked at his traveling companion gravely. "You're the heir," he said softly in realization. "You're the grandson of Titus Mede!"

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Next up, Marcus and Dante take the pieces of Mehrunes' Razor back to Dawnstar. And Marcus and Tamsyn come to grips with the new-found information regarding the Grey Fox's background, its implications, and what it means to the Alliance.]_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

There was silence around the basin for several moments.

"Is this true?" Dante murmured, not daring to believe it. "Or is this all just smoke and mirrors?"

"Your blood has given us the true vision, young Breton," Drascua confirmed. "The Old Ones do not lie."

"I don't understand one thing," Marcus interjected. "If Greyshadow here truly _is_ Titus Mede's grandson, why wasn't his mother an Imperial? She looked more like a Breton to me in that vision we saw."

Drascua sighed in exasperation. "If you knew your history, Dragonborn," she huffed, "you would know that Titus Mede married Lady Yvara Renault of House Renault of Alcaire, in High Rock. This would make the Princess Lucinda only one-half Imperial. She always did favor her mother in all but the color of her hair. Empress Yvara's hair was very fair."

"So, Greyshadow, here, is really only one-fourth Imperial," Marcus nodded in understanding.

"Not that it matters," Drascua continued. "The stories tell that Tiber Septim himself came from Alcaire, and was a Breton, not an Imperial. The stumbling block to Master Greyshadow being unable to inherit is his illegitimacy, unless the Emperor himself recognizes him as his grandson."

"And that doesn't seem likely to happen," Dante grimaced sourly.

"Why not?" Marcus demanded. "As I understand it, you saved the man's life. Isn't this what you were angling for? To be named heir in gratitude for services rendered?"

"Just because it's something I wanted, doesn't mean it will happen," Dante fired back. "The Emperor has a mind of his own about such matters."

"Oh really?" Marcus frowned, certain things beginning to click in his mind. The Breton Guildmaster's attitude for the entire trip had been almost adversarial. It was time to get to the bottom of that and find out why. "You're his confidante. He must have said something to you about it."

"I'm not going to discuss that here," the Breton Guildmaster frowned.

"Oh, yes you are!" the Dragonborn rumbled, storm clouds looming in his narrowing eyes. "Why are you here, Greyshadow. Why are you _really_ here?"

"I thought I made that crystal clear," Dante scowled. "I'm after Mehrunes' Razor to keep it out of the hands of the Dominion."

"Bullshit," Marcus bit out. "You could have simply sent Tamsyn or myself after it to repay this debt that I don't deny we owe you. You didn't have to come all the way up to Skyrim yourself. We could have found it and brought it down to you. Mission fulfilled, debt repaid."

Dante simmered. As much as he hated to admit it, the Dragonborn had seen through his ruse. He threw a glance at the Matriarch, but Drascua held her tongue and watched the two men with glittering onyx eyes.

"Fine, then," he sighed, reaching into his tunic and pulling out the Emperor's sealed letter. "The Emperor sent me to give you this." He handed over the letter. Marcus gave the Breton man a sour look.

"When were you actually going to give this to me?" he demanded.

Dante didn't even blush as he replied blandly, "I was hoping I wouldn't have to. But since you've forced my hand, you might as well hear it from Titus Mede himself."

He waited while Marcus broke the seal and perused the contents of the parchment. He was unprepared, however, for the Dragonborn's reaction, as the younger man burst into peals of laughter. Still guffawing, he handed it off to Drascua, who merely smirked as she read the letter.

Dante lifted an eyebrow. "That's not really how I imagined you would respond," he drawled.

"No…fucking…way!" Marcus gasped between fits of laughter. "Begging your pardon, Matriarch."

A slow smile spread over Dante's face. "Do I take this to mean you refuse the offer?" he asked, guilelessly.

Marcus was overcome with another fit of hilarity. It was several minutes before he calmed down enough to speak coherently.

"You can tell the Emperor for me that…how shall I put this delicately?" he began, grinning.

Dante allowed a smug smile. "That he can expect no carnal intimacies?" he suggested.

Marcus chuckled again, but managed to get himself under control. "That might do, for a start," he nodded.

Dante felt a weight lift from his shoulders. "Not that I'm trying to convince you otherwise," he mused, "but is there any particular reason why you wouldn't want to become the most powerful man in all of Tamriel?" He already had a fairly good idea, having travelled with the Dragonborn for the past week.

Marcus sobered. "I think you know the reason," he replied. "I don't like the spotlight. I never have. I do as much as I can, when I can. I never wanted power. I only wanted to be able to help people. Being the Dragonborn allows me to do that. If I had wanted that kind of power, I would have followed through on Mephala's suggestion to become the next Jarl of Whiterun. I would have taken Clavicus Vile up on his offer instead of stealing his dog."

"Wait a minute—" Dante held up a gauntleted hand. "Back up a second. You said Mephala wanted you to become Jarl of Whiterun? You mean… _murder_ Balgruuf?"

"Yeah," Marcus nodded. "And that was never going to happen, so—"

"But how did you even initiate contact with her?" Dante pressed. "Daedric Princes don't just manifest anywhere. Even _I_ know that!"

Marcus glared at the Breton Guildmaster before sighing in resignation. "I stole the Ebony Blade of Mephala from Jarl Balgruuf," he finally admitted. "It was hidden in the dungeons under Dragonsreach, but Mephala had already gotten to his kids, making them act up. It was only a matter of time before she might have turned them into junior assassins herself. So, I took the Blade."

" _You_ …took the Blade…"

"Yeah, but I lost it soon after," the Dragonborn admitted. "I had to infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy in Solitude to find out what they knew about the dragons returning, and I was forced to trust someone I didn't know to smuggle my armor and the Blade into the place before I got there. I didn't want to leave the Blade at home, knowing what Mephala was capable of doing in my absence."

"Hold it," Dante interrupted, putting up his hand again. Things were clicking into place. Reports that had made no sense at the time suddenly fused into clarity. "It was _YOU,_ " he breathed in admiration. _"You_ were responsible for the chaos within the Dominion!"

"Don't remind me," Marcus grumbled morosely. "I never should have brought it with me—"

"No, no!" Dante chuckled gleefully. "It was beautiful! I couldn't have planned it better myself! You have no idea the ramifications this has sent through the Dominion! They have recently lost scores of their upper-echelon officers, and no one knew why! It was all due to the Ebony Blade! It's _brilliant!"_

"Well, I've found some of my best plans are the ones I didn't plan on," Marcus admitted with a rueful grin. "So, where does that leave us now?"

Dante shrugged. "I'm not sure. The Emperor made it pretty clear to me to try to persuade you to become his adopted son. I can't just spring my identity on him. For one thing, he'd never believe me, and for another, he has his heart set on you."

"I'm unavailable," Marcus said flatly. "You can tell him from me, 'thanks, but no thanks'."

"I'll pass that along," Dante shrugged. "It doesn't mean he'll accept it and move on."

"Why can't you tell him who you are?" Marcus rejoined. "You have that birthmark, or scar, or whatever you want to call it. Wouldn't he recognize that?"

"He might," Dante nodded, "but it might not be enough to convince him."

"What about that nurse of yours? Clarice?" Marcus reminded him. "She'd be able to prove your identity, wouldn't she?"

"The word of an elderly wet-nurse?" Dante was skeptical, but remorse stung him again. As soon as he returned to Cyrodiil, he was going to send out agents to discover if Nonna was still alive.

"She might have other documentation she didn't share with you," Marcus reasoned.

"Perhaps," the Breton Guildmaster admitted, dubious.

"Hold on a moment…" Marcus rubbed the beard on his chin thoughtfully. "Doesn't Titus Mede have a cousin living in Skyrim? It seems to me Vittoria Vici in Solitude has a connection to him."

"Yes, but she's out of favor," Dante replied. "Vittoria is related to his Imperial Majesty through a connection on her mother's side, who was a second cousin to Titus Mede the Second. The relationship is there, but it's distant, and he'd like to keep it that way. In any case," the Breton Guildmaster continued, "we can focus on that later." He turned to Drascua. "Right now, I need to know if you, Matriarch, will give me the Pommel?"

Drascua chuckled. "It was my intention all along, young Master Greyshadow," she assured him as she handed it over, "as soon as I knew _your_ intentions. Indeed, it would be in my best interests, and in the best interests of all the Reachfolk, to remain on the good side of the next Emperor of Tamriel."

"That hasn't happened yet," Dante mused soberly. "And I'm not sure what I can do to help you. I know what you all want, but I don't know that it would be within my power to give it to you. The High King or Queen of Skyrim has to secede the land."

"But it must be approved by the Emperor," Drascua replied. "I know we don't have a High King or Queen right now, but soon…very soon. The Dragonborn is helping us with that."

Marcus understood the gamble the Matriarch was taking. Rather than pin all her hopes on the Dragonborn, she was hedging her bets by getting in good with a potential candidate for the Ruby Throne. But it hadn't happened yet, and they still needed to return to Dawnstar.

"We'll need to head back," he said. "You mentioned the Thalmor know about the Razor?" At Drascua's nod he asked, "Will they make a move between here and Dawnstar?"

Drascua's beady black eyes narrowed, as if peering into the not-too-distant future.

"Difficult to say," she finally replied. "It will depend upon which way you take from here."

Dante frowned. "There aren't a lot of options," he drawled. "We either walk or take our horses."

Marcus gave a smug grin. "That's…not entirely true," he suggested lightly, as Drascua cackled.

"We'll see that the horses get back to your home safely, Dragonborn," she promised.

"Thank you, Matriarch," he smiled. "We're at Heljarchen, in the Pale, at the moment."

Drascua gave a quick nod to one of the Briarhearts, who bowed and left, presumably to tend to the horses.

"And just _how_ are we getting back to Dawnstar then, Dragonborn?" Dante frowned. "Don't tell me you have some sort of portal already, or secret underground passage."

"Oh, much better than that," Marcus chortled. He led them back down through the tunnel and out into the open area at the bottom of the stairs. Throwing his head back he bellowed.

" _OD-AH-VIING!"_

The ground shook alarmingly with the force of the Dragonborn's _thu'um,_ even though it had been directed to the skies above. Stacks of spears nearby rattled, and crockery danced across wooden tables to _thunk_ softly into the dirt. Several goats roaming in an adjacent field bleated in fright and scurried to the furthest reaches of the Redoubt.

"What in the name of all Aedra and Daedra was _that?_ " Dante gasped, more than slightly unnerved himself. He was certain he could still feel the vibrations in his blood.

"Wait for it," Marcus advised, holding up a hand.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind whistling down the Dragontail Mountains and the noises of a busy Reachfolk encampment around them. Then, faintly, in the far distance, came a sound that chilled Dante's blood and defied definition. He had simply never heard anything like it before. A smudge of something appeared in the eastern sky, catching the light of the afternoon sun and blossoming into a bright ruby red. As it drew nearer, he felt his blood run cold. He had only heard the reports, seen the sketches, but had never actually seen one living. A dragon! And it was headed right for them!

He brought his hands up, vapors of frost drifting from them, but Marcus reached over and forced his hands down.

"I'll thank you not to shoot my dragon," he frowned.

" _Your_ dragon?" Dante gulped, allowing the spell to fizzle.

Marcus nodded. "Technically, he's his own dragon," the younger man replied as the dragon circled overhead searching for a place to land. "His name is Odahviing, and he's more like a…a partner, I guess you could say. But he acknowledges me as his _Thuri,_ his Lord, because my _thu'um_ is stronger than his."

"You're sure about that?" Dante asked, with a healthy bit of skepticism and nerves combined in his tone.

Marcus shot him a glare. "I killed Alduin," he reminded the Guildmaster. "For a dragon, that's as good as it gets."

Dante said nothing, but followed the Dragonborn down another flight of stairs to a lower area large enough to accommodate the dragon, who raised his head upon their approach.

" _Drem yol lok, Thuri,"_ the dragon rumbled. _"Hi lost faan ahrk Zu'u lost bo. Fos los nii hi hind do zey?" Greetings, Lord. You have called and I have come. What is it you wish of me?_

"Thank you for coming, Odahviing," Marcus responded. He gestured to Dante, behind him. "This is my traveling companion, Dante Greyshadow. We need to get to Dawnstar as quickly as possible." Dante noticed that with the firedrake, the Dragonborn didn't even try to hide his companion's identity.

The dragon studied the Breton Guildmaster for a long moment. Dante met the gaze unflinching, though inside his gut was clenching. The dragon seemed satisfied, for after several heartbeats, he turned back to Marcus.

"I will take you both there, _Thuri,_ " he offered. "Climb onto my back and hold on tight, _Munfaliil_ ," he advised Dante. "I promise to make the trip _vahk_ …easy…for you."

"I appreciate that…Odahviing," Dante acknowledged, ducking his head in a short bow. "Out of curiosity," he added, "what did you call me?"

Odahviing chuckled, an alarming rumble in his throat to anyone who did not know dragons. Dante did not, and started uncertainly. _"Munfaliil,"_ Odahviing repeated. "It means, literally, 'man-elf.' Your ancestors were both men and mer, so all the _dov_ refer to Bretons as _munfahliil."_

"Fascinating," Dante murmured as he settled himself behind the Dragonborn. "I didn't know that."

"Indeed," Odahviing replied. "It is one of the reasons why Bretons live longer than Nords, Redguards or Imperials, and why your _zeymah_ …your brethren…have an inborn resistance to magic being cast at you. Hold fast!" he called as he launched himself into the air.

To his credit, Dante kept his eyes wide open as the world fell away from under them. The Reachfolk were reduced smaller and smaller as they gained height, until they resembled nothing more than ants, crawling around their Redoubt. He caught a last glimpse of Matriarch Drascua lifting a clawed hand in farewell from the top of her Tower before Odahviing wheeled away towards the northeast, heading for Dawnstar.

"How many days will it take to get back?" Dante shouted above the noise of rushing air.

Marcus laughed. "Traveling by dragonback is measured in _hours,_ not days!" he called back. "We'll be there before sunset!"

Dante settled back, satisfied. They would avoid any potential ambush on the road this way, and reach their destination far quicker than the Dominion may have planned. But he didn't fool himself; where one plan failed to pan out, the Dominion usually had two or three others in place as back-ups. If they weren't able to take the pieces of the Razor from the Dragonborn and the Guildmaster traveling out on the roads, they might try to wrest them from a clueless Silas Vesuius once they had been returned to him. Worse still, they might even wait until Vesuius had somehow managed to reforge the blade before killing him outright and taking it off his body.

Dante, himself, had no qualms about killing Vesuius, should it become necessary. The man was definitely unstable, and should never be trusted with a butter knife, let alone a Daedric artifact. He had no desire to continually watch his back waiting for that butter knife to be plunged into it, if Vesuius' misplaced hero-worship of the Mythic Dawn suddenly turned into a stiffer spine than the man currently had. The Thalmor worried him more. He knew their methods of carefully cultivating an operative until the time was right to strike. He had his network of informants, his inner circle of fellow Nightingales, and his own rather impressive skills at self-preservation. He simply didn't want to enter into a firefight with an entire cadre of fanatical Dominion operatives. The Thalmor tended to shoot first and ask questions later.

They were over the western edge of the Whiterun plains when they heard the challenge. An ancient bronze dragon rose from one of the peaks cropping up out of the tundra.

" _Dovahkiin, Zu'u jur hin viilut wah rel mii!" Dragonborn, I challenge your right to rule us!_

"Oh boy," Marcus muttered as Odahviing veered away. "Odahviing, set us down and stay clear. This is between me and the old timer."

"As you wish, _Thuri,"_ the firedrake replied, nose-diving towards the ground. Dante held his breath and clung to the neck frill in front of him.

"What is it?" Dante asked in concern. "What's going on?"

"That ancient dragon isn't happy about my position among the _dov,"_ Marcus replied as Odahviing landed. "Seems he wants to change that. Stay out of this, alright? This is my fight."

"What am I supposed to do?" the Guildmaster demanded, as they jumped off Odahviing.

"Find cover," Marcus said shortly. "The old one won't discriminate between non-combatants."

"You just told Odahviing this was between you and the old guy," Dante protested.

"Dragon's honor," Marcus shrugged. "The ancient one thinks he can take me on all by himself. He won't include Odahviing because it would then be two against one, and he's too smart to do that."

"What am I? Chopped liver?" Dante frowned.

"You're a _joor,_ a mortal," Marcus explained as the ancient dragon winged overhead. "You don't count. Now get back! Here he comes!"

Marcus charged out into the open as Odahviing took off and the ancient dragon pulled up, hovering in mid-air in front of them. It took an indrawn breath, and Dante threw up a ward for protection.

The attack never came as Marcus thundered, _"JOOR ZAH FRUL!"_

The dragon staggered and floundered as the _thu'um_ limned it with blueish light. Desperately, it tried to claw its way back into the air, but time and age caught up with it, bringing it down.

" _Fos lost hi drehlaan wah zey?"_ the ancient one wailed. " _Fos bein kromaar los daar?"_ _What have you done to me? What foul sorcery is this?_

"It's not sorcery, Old One," Marcus replied. "It's what makes me stronger than you. Will you yield?"

" _Niid, Dovahkiin,"_ the dragon replied, and snapped out at the puny _joor_ in front of him. Dante's stomach lurched as it seemed the Dragonborn would have been bitten completely in two, but Marcus quickly leaped to one side and slashed down on the ancient one's snout with the Akaviri blade in his right hand. In fury, the dragon roared, struggling to get airborne, but the Dragonrend Shout held it fast in its grasp.

Marcus made a dash for the wing, to attempt to clamber to the dragon's neck, but the old one was still more spry than he let on. A buffet from the wing knocked Marcus back about ten feet. He landed hard, with an _"oof!"_ before kipping back up on his feet.

This time the dragon inhaled and blew out a cone of frost so wide it caught Dante in its area of effect. Despite his Nightingale armor, and the warding spell he continued to maintain, he felt chilled to the bone.

Marcus staggered as the wall of frost hit him, but a ring on his finger glowed briefly and he pushed through his pain to send a whirling dual attack around the dragon's head and neck. Again, the old one snapped out, but got a dragonbone sword across the snout for his efforts.

"You wear the bones of my brothers," the ancient drake sneered, "but you will never be _dovah."_

"You're not the first one to make that insult," Marcus jibed back, as the Dragonrend Shout began to fade. "The others are all dead, though, so you can't really ask them how it worked out for them. _JOOR ZAH FRUL!"_ The _thu'um_ hit the dragon full in the face, and it roared in pain as once more, the weight of its own mortality came crushing down upon it.

Marcus took the opportunity to leap to its neck, unobstructed this time, and he placed the point of the Akaviri blade at the juncture of the spine where it met the base of the skull. "Do…you…yield?" he hissed dangerously.

There was a moment's pause.

" _Niid, Dovahkiin,"_ the dragon snarled. "I will never yield to a _joor._ Kill me. I will not live to be ruled by such as you."

Dante saw a look of regret sweep across the Dragonborn's face as he threw all his weight against his sword, driving it into the dragon's brain. The ancient one slumped, and Marcus leaped lightly down to the ground as the convulsing body immolated. He stood in sober contemplation as the soul flew into him and settled into a corner of his mind.

In that moment, Dante realized for the first time just how different the Dragonborn was from nearly all other men. No other man in his experience could have taken down a dragon single-handedly. No man in living memory could devour a dragon's soul, as Marcus had just done. Most would have been happy simply to run away from a dragon with their life. Some, perhaps knights or other glory-seekers, would have endeavored to kill the dragon outright, without attempting to reason with it. Marcus gave it more than one chance to yield, but the dragon had refused. It was this quality, more than any other, that set the Dragonborn apart: his compassion. He had demonstrated it time and again on their journey, and Dante knew that for this reason alone, if no other, the Dragonborn _needed_ to be out among the people of Tamriel, not cloistered in a White-Gold Tower.

Odahviing had returned, and Marcus turned to Dante.

"There's some treasure here, if you want it. It doesn't all burn up when they go."

"Don't you want it?" the Breton Guildmaster asked.

Marcus shook his head, brooding. "Not this time."

There was some gold – quite a bit of it, actually – and some gems, which Dante pocketed. He left the minor armor and weapons. He had better.

Turning to Marcus, who was already preparing to remount Odahviing, he couldn't help but ask, "Something on your mind, Dragonborn? You don't seem very happy about taking out that dragon."

Marcus sighed and waited until Dante had remounted behind him before answering.

"I'm supposed to be recruiting the dragons to my cause," he explained. "I'm…not having much success. The younger ones seem to think it's a great adventure, to fight the Dragonborn's enemies. The older ones…well…you saw what happened here. They think now that Alduin's gone they can call me out, have a…a showdown at high noon, to take my place."

"Like the best knight in the world having to fight every beardless boy with a sword who thinks he can take on the hero," Dante nodded.

"Exactly," Marcus agreed, as Odahviing launched himself into the air once more. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do yet, but building up my dragon force is taking a bit longer than I anticipated."

Dante said nothing, but held on as Odahviing turned north and headed once more towards Dawnstar. A scant handful of hours later, the elder firedrake set them down just outside the capital of the Pale, and the two men walked into town. The sun was low in the sky, and Dante noted that the shops were already bringing in their outdoor displays, preparing to close up for the night. The smith was banking the fire in his forge, and the alchemist was taking down the herbs hanging from the roof of her covered porch.

The Museum of the Mythic Dawn, however, was still open, as they could see warm light spilling from the windows. Dante gave a preemptory knock before entering.

"Ah!" the curator beamed. "You're back! Do I take this to mean you've found one of the pieces?"

The Dragonborn and the Guildmaster exchanged a hesitant look. At a nod from Marcus, Dante opened his pack and took out the carefully-wrapped bundle. He set it on a nearby table and undid the leather thongs holding it all together.

"Actually," he replied soberly. "We found all of them." He flipped back the last layer of cloth to reveal the pieces.

"All of them at once!" Silas gasped, eyes widening in wonder and admiration. "You're efficient! I like that. Here," he continued, handing over a large pouch of gold, which Dante set on the table for the moment. "You deserve this for all your trouble." An almost fanatical expression of elation spread across Vesuius' face. "Finally," he breathed. "All the pieces are mine! There is but one step left to take. I'll let you in on a little secret. There's a fourth piece: that scabbard in the display case." He took a key from his pocket and opened the case, retrieving the scabbard. "And there's more!" he exclaimed gleefully.

Dante knew what was coming, but wanted to hear it from Vesuius how he planned to accomplish it. "What's that?" he asked.

"I know how to reforge the Razor!" the curator enthused. "We must take this to the Shrine of Lord Dagon himself and ask him to put it all back together!"

Dante felt his heart sink. The Arch-Mage had been correct. Vesuius didn't actually intend to put the blade into the fire himself; he was hinging all his hopes on the Daedric Prince of Destruction to be genially disposed enough to do it for him.

"This seems like a bad idea," Marcus rumbled. Up until now he had allowed Dante to take the lead, but he felt honor-bound now to voice his objections to this mad scheme. Dante threw him a look of pure irritation.

"You don't want to be a part of history?" Vesuius glared, his mouth compressing to a thin line. "Fine, then. I'll take it to Dagon myself. Meet me there if you change your mind."

He swiftly rolled the pieces back into their cloth and shoved the entire bundle into his side-satchel. Giving the two men barely another glance, he bolted for the door and was gone before they could make any further objections.

"What was that all about?" Dante demanded. "I thought we agreed to let _me_ do the talking?"

"I'm not going to apologize, Greyshadow," Marcus returned with some heat. "I said from the beginning that searching for this Daedric artifact was a bad idea. If Vesuius only wanted to put the pieces on display in a locked case, I would have been okay with it. But taking it back to Mehrunes Dagon to get it reforged? Even _you_ have to admit it's just asking for trouble!"

"I was never going to let him keep it to begin with," the Guildmaster said, exasperated, as he swept up the pouch of gold and pocketed it. He noticed the Dragonborn did not object. "It was my intention all along to come back after he fell asleep and reclaim it."

"Locked in a case, locked up in his house," Marcus pointed out. "Are you that good a thief?" His disapproval was clearly written all over his face.

"Actually, yes, I am," Dante shot back, unashamed. "And while we stand here arguing over ethics, Vesuius is getting a head start on us. Which means the Thalmor can get to him just that much quicker!"

Both men fell silent as the sounds of a horse whinnying outside, and rapidly receding hoofbeats came to their attention. They both ran for the door, Dante two steps ahead of the Dragonborn. Wrenching it open, they saw Silas Vesuius' retreating figure as he whipped his horse into a gallop along the beach, heading out of town.

"Brilliant!" Dante said sourly. "Just brilliant! And we're without horses to follow him. Can your dragon follow?" he asked, as the thought occurred to him.

"I'm not sure," Marcus admitted. "Odahviing would need space to land. And I don't know where this Shrine to Mehrunes' Dagon is."

"Would your wife know?"

A smile bloomed on the Dragonborn's face. "Yes, I believe she would," he replied.

* * *

"There he is!" Dante pointed from his position behind the Dragonborn. They were at least two hundred feet in the air, on Odahviing's back, heading south across the snowfields towards the ridge of mountains that separated the Pale from Hjaalmarch. Masser and Secunda were both out, bathing the world below with their mixed glow of copper and silver. Marcus realized they weren't that far from the ruined Hall of the Vigilants, and Dimhollow Crypt, where he had found Serana Volkihar not very long ago. So much had happened in so short a time! Looking over Odahviing's shoulder, he could see Silas Vesuius on his horse following a narrow trail past the cave and deeper into the mountains.

From this height, it was quite easy to pick out the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon. The hideous, four-armed apparition of the Daedric Prince of Destruction had been carved into the side of the mountain, seated on a throne with a small, flatter area laid out in front of him. Marcus could even make out some kind of altar table in the dim light of the moons.

"Odahviing," Marcus called out. "See if you can find an area in which to land. Put us as close as you can to the Shrine."

"As my _Thuri_ wishes," the great red dragon called back, and wheeled sharply to the left to circle the area, looking for a likely spot.

"What about that area there?" Dante called, pointing to a flatter area surrounding a standing stone. A scant handful of bandits were camped there, drawing their weapons as the dragon approached. One was already firing iron arrows at them.

 _Points for bravery,_ Dante thought, _but negated due to foolishness._

"Good enough," Marcus nodded. "Odahviing! Flame those bandits, then set us down near the Lord Stone!"

The dragon did not reply but rumbled with approval as his _thu'um_ roiled out. The bandits scattered, but could not avoid the flames, succumbing quickly. Odahviing chuckled as he settled onto the snow-packed ground.

"That was hardly worth the effort," he complained good-naturedly.

"Stay close," Marcus told him. "I have a feeling you'll get a better opportunity soon."

"If the Altmer are nearby, as you suspect, _Thuri_ ," the dragon replied, ducking his head in acknowledgment, "I am certain it will become more interesting very soon, even if I do not get to participate."

The elder firedrake lifted himself into the air and tilted his wings to shear off to the north to patrol the area. Marcus and Dante paused a few moments to get their bearings and strategize.

In the ruddy, silvery light of the twin moons, high overhead, they could see a flight of stairs some distance to the southeast. They could also see that Silas had now abandoned his horse to the appetite of a frost troll and was sprinting his way up the steps while the beast was otherwise occupied.

"That's one big fucking troll," Dante said dubiously. The ones in Cyrodiil never got that large!

"That's a baby," Marcus replied, but a hint of a smile curled his lips, and the Breton Guildmaster hoped his companion was joking. "Fire works best on them," he added. "Just don't let them hit you. Their punch packs a wallop!"

"Noted," the Grey Fox nodded.

In the end, between the Guildmaster's firebolts and Marcus' arrows and Odahviing's Fire Breath as the creature attempted to escape, the troll never stood a chance.

" _LAAS YAH NIR,"_ Marcus breathed, and the world lit up around him. Odahviing had veered off to a neighboring hilltop to avoid the bolts of frost that Silas Vesuius, near the Shrine, was sending his way.

"What was that?" Dante murmured. Since the Dragonborn had whispered, he felt the need to do the same.

"Aura Whisper," Marcus replied quietly. "It's one of my abilities. It lets me know if there's anything living nearby."

"Like a Detect Life spell?" Dante murmured. "You used this back in that cave with the spriggans, didn't you?"

Marcus nodded.

"See anything?" the Guildmaster asked.

"Yep," Marcus grinned, satisfied. "Foxes, rabbits, a couple of bears further away, and Vesuius up there." He pointed up the stairs.

"That's it?"

"Nope," the Dragonborn said smugly. "There are at least a dozen other humanoid figures hidden in the rocks around the Shrine up there." His smile faded as he added grimly, "I'm guessing the Thalmor are taking no chances."

"A dozen," Dante mused, disconcerted.

Marcus blew out a breath. "Yeah, we're really outnumbered here. Even if I were to call Odahviing back. They're hidden in the rocks. And if Odahviing tried to flame them, he could catch us in the area of effect."

Now it was Dante's turn to smile. "Want me to take a few out?" he asked. "Even the odds a bit?"

"Can you do that?" Marcus asked doubtfully. "I mean, without tipping them off?"

A pained expression crossed the Guildmaster's face. "My dear Dragonborn," he complained. "You wound me. I am not a servant of Nocturnal for nothing!"

Marcus gave a feral grin. "My apologies, Guildmaster," he replied contritely. "See if you can leave the Justiciar alive. I'd love to see his face when he gives the word to attack and realizes he has no backup."

"Cornered animals fight the fiercest," Dante cautioned. "Just be prepared for anything. Wait here for me. I'll make this as quick as I can." He slipped away after confirming the locations of the Thalmor guards with Marcus.

And wait Marcus did, for at least another hour as Masser moved across the sky with little sister Secunda chasing him. Every quarter-hour or so he fired off another Aura Whisper, and noted with satisfaction how the number of red blobs continued to diminish.

For his part, the figure that was Silas Vesuius seemed oblivious to what was going on around him. He remained in one spot, moving only slightly and waving his arms around, as if to keep warm. It was clear he appeared to be waiting for someone. That the Justiciar himself chose not to reveal himself at this time was revealing. Clearly, he was also waiting for something to happen; something that Vesuius himself was having trouble initiating.

A little over an hour later, Dante returned.

"Any trouble?" Marcus asked.

"Of course not," the Guildmaster replied. "I _am_ a professional, after all."

"We each have our own bailiwicks," Marcus shrugged.

"Indeed," Dante agreed. "Shall we go confront Vesuius?"

"I think we should," Marcus nodded. "What was he doing up there, by the way? Could you see anything?"

"A bit," Dante admitted. "He was clearly attempting to summon Mehrunes Dagon, but nothing was happening, and he was getting very frustrated."

"That's a good thing, then," Marcus said, relieved. "Maybe he was wrong all along, and he can't summon Dagon to reforge the Razor."

"Perhaps," Dante acceded, though part of him was sorely disappointed that that might be the case. "But I'm still not letting him keep the pieces."

"We'll see," was all Marcus would say as they climbed the steps together.

As they reached the top, Vesuius – who heard their approach, if not their conversation – greeted them warmly. In his eyes, they had apparently had a change of heart and had decided to help him.

"Good!" he exclaimed happily. "You're finally here! Now all that remains is to ask Lord Dagon to reforge the Razor!" He made no mention of the fact that he had spent the last hour attempting to do just that without success.

He returned to an altar table, the type of which Marcus had seen many times in many barrows, whereupon the pieces of the Razor lay. This altar, however, bore effigies of a twisted, evil, demonic face at either end, instead of the stylized Atmoran dragons Marcus was used to seeing. Under the throne upon which Dagon perched, a set of iron doors was fitted into the face of the mountain.

Turning toward the table, Silas raised his face as well as his hands in supplication to Mehrunes Dagon, and spoke out loud.

"Mehrunes Dagon, the Lord of Change, we've brought your Razor to you. We beg you, please bring the blade's full glory to Tamriel again!"

Marcus held his breath, and he felt fairly certain Dante did the same. After several moments of silence, however, Silas dropped his hands.

"It's not working," he said, crestfallen. He made no mention of his earlier lack of success. Inspiration seemed to strike, however, as Vesuius turned to the two men with him. "Why don't you try?" he offered. "Perhaps Dagon will speak with one of you?"

"That's far enough!" a haughty voice called out. Stepping out from behind a pile of boulders to the left of the effigy of Dagon, a black-robed Thalmor Justiciar and two gold-and-glass-clad guards confronted the three men.

"I thought you took them all out?" Marcus whispered harshly to Dante.

"Those two were too close to the Robe," Dante murmured, shrugging. "It would have made him suspicious if I'd tried."

"Guards, surround them!" the Justiciar declared loudly.

Silence greeted his command. Dante smirked and Marcus' grin was positively wolfen.

"I said guards!" the Justiciar insisted, glaring around the perimeter.

"They're too busy being dead," Dante smiled urbanely. "You Altmer really _are_ unobservant, aren't you!"

The Justiciar's face was a thundercloud of hate. "It matters not. Silas! These men are planning to kill you and claim the Razor once it has been reforged!"

Silas gasped, betrayal written all over his face. "But you – you both agreed to find the pieces –"

"Only to kill you once it was reforged," the Justiciar insisted. He motioned to his two guards. "Kill them now!"

"I trusted you!" Vesuius cried in anguish. He summoned a frost Atronach and sent a lightning bolt towards Marcus, who dodged to one side.

It caught him a glancing blow. He felt his muscle tighten, but the spell wasn't as strong as it could have been. He launched himself at the two Altmer guards, one of whom summoned a sword in one hand while streaming frost from the other.

Dodging the frost, Marcus Shouted, _"TIID KLO UL!"_

Time slowed to a crawl around him as he swiftly crossed the distance to the closest guard and lopped off the mer's head with Alduin's Bane. He could see the Justiciar bringing his hands up to cast electricity once more, and moved quickly across the area towards the Altmer, striking out with Dragonbane and severing one of the Justiciar's hands.

Then everything caught up to him and he was back in normal time. The headless guard slumped to the ground, to the horrified gaze of his companion. The Justiciar screamed in agony as blood gushed from one stump of an arm. The lightning spell fizzled.

Meanwhile, Vesuius' Atronach was bearing down on Marcus, not having any other target. The Breton Guildmaster had simply vanished from sight. Marcus would have been irritated, but now he knew this was how Greyshadow worked. Indeed, as he brought up Alduin's Bane to block the first blow from the Atronach, he saw the second guard drop to the ground, having sprouted a flaming ebony sword between her ribs. He couldn't see Dante, however, but knew he had to trust that the Grey Fox would have his back.

Marcus struck out at the Atronach, which crumbled under the force of his blow and the enchantments that had been laid upon the dragon bone blade. Purple fire crackled and disappeared into Marcus' backpack as he took the creature's soul.

The Justiciar had fired off a healing spell with his remaining hand and called to Vesuius.

"Silas, help me! You know I've always been your friend!"

In response, Vesuius launched a dual-cast Ice Spike directly at Marcus, who could not avoid the attack. Bitter cold lanced through his midsection, and he gasped in shock, as though plunged into the Sea of Ghosts on a blustery winter's day.

This gave the Justiciar an opportunity, and he took it. Firing off a whirling cloud of frost which froze Marcus to his core, the Dominion agent backed away, towards the stairs.

"Going somewhere?" Dante murmured in his ear as he rose up behind him and slit the mer's throat. He let the body fall down the long flight unhindered.

Marcus was on his knees, gasping for breath and shivering violently.

"You're not going to kill me!" Silas proclaimed wildly as he threw off another Ice Spike at the Breton Guildmaster. Dante merely side-stepped the attack.

"Knock it off, Vesuius," he called out. "Can't you see the Dominion has played you?"

"It's just like Maldir said!" the curator babbled wild-eyed. "You pretended to help me, but all along you planned to kill me and take the Razor!"

"Maldir was only partly lying," Dante said blandly. "I never planned to kill you. Not if you saw reason."

"So, you _do_ plan on taking the Razor!" Silas cried. "I knew it! Well, I won't let you!" He threw another spell at the Breton Guildmaster; lightning this time, and Dante stiffened as it hit. He had a natural resistance to magic being cast at him, but it still hurt.

"I said that's enough, Vesuius!" Dante thundered darkly, as Marcus got to his feet. "Don't force me to do something you'll regret."

But Vesuius was too far gone to listen, and he backed away, firing another lightning bolt at Dante.

"I _will_ bring back the Mythic Dawn!" Vesuius babbled. "I'll kill you both, and Lord Dagon will have to acknowledge I'm worthy to bear his Razor!" He summoned another Atronach and sent it against them, still gibbering almost incoherently. "And when I have the Razor, I'll return to the Imperial City. I'll kill the Emperor, and a new day will dawn for the Empire! We'll be rid of the tyrant and can build a paradise here on Tamriel!"

"The guy's nuttier than Grandma's fruitcake," Marcus growled, facing off against the second Atronach. "We have to stop him!"

"I'll stop him," Dante muttered, crouching. Silas' eyes widened in fear as it appeared to him that the Breton had simply vanished.

"Where are you?" he cried, casting his gaze around wildly. He put up a ward in front of him while Marcus whittled the Atronach down.

"Behind you," Dante whispered in his ear, as he sank his blade into Vesuius from behind, practically lifting the Imperial off his feet. With a short, choked gurgle, Vesuius died, and the Atronach dissipated.

"What a waste!" the Grey Fox muttered scornfully as he rejoined the Dragonborn.

"He didn't leave us much choice," Marcus observed. "But I guess in the end it's for the best. That guy had bats in his belfry."

"You have some very colorful euphemisms, my friend," Dante chuckled.

"You have no idea," Marcus replied, returning the grin. "Anyway, it's done. You've got the pieces of the Razor."

Dante frowned. "Yeah, but not reforged. I was kind of hoping Vesuius would manage that much, at least. I have no idea how we're supposed to manage that."

"Do you really have to have it all in one piece?" Marcus inquired, skeptically. It seemed to him that keeping the pieces apart would be better in the long run.

Dante shrugged. "Yes, actually," he returned. "There's a chance I could be Emperor one day. I'd rather have this in my hands, where I know where it is, than to leave it for someone else to use against me, or against Titus Mede – my grandfather – before his time." The last part was spoken almost in hushed tones of wonder, as if Dante himself was still coming to terms with it.

Marcus mulled that over in his mind. Shaking his head and blowing out a breath of resignation, he finally sighed, "Well, if anyone will know how, Tamsyn would. Go ahead and contact her."

The Arch-Mage answered immediately this time and listened patiently while they explained the situation to her. She was silent for several heartbeats.

" _You're sure you want to do this?"_ she finally asked. They could hear the conflict in her voice.

"Absolutely certain," Dante replied.

" _Alright,"_ Tamsyn sighed at last. _"I'll tell you what_ might _work. It's really up to Dagon to decide. And then you'll have to deal with him. He'll probably want one of you to kill the other, so be prepared. He cheats."_

"It's been my experience that _all_ the Daedra cheat," Marcus said sarcastically. Tamsyn tinkled a laugh over the earbud.

" _You're not wrong, dearest,"_ she giggled. _"All you need to do is put your hands on the altar. If he's interested in you, Dagon will do the rest. You can flip a coin to see who gets the honors."_

"Not me," Marcus said, shaking his head vehemently after Tamsyn signed off. "I'll have nothing to do with this!"

"I'll give it a shot," Dante shrugged. He really didn't expect it to work. After all, Vesuius was clearly a devout follower of Dagon, and the Prince wouldn't even talk to _him._

He placed his hands on the altar table, on either side of the pieces of the Razor. But before he could formulate what to say, a deep, sepulchral voice boomed around the mountaintop.

" _You,"_ the voice rumbled. _"You are worthy of speaking to. You have claimed the pieces of my Razor. It has been an amusing game to witness. You have already killed Silas Vesuius. He and his family were useful tools, but that usefulness has passed."_ There was a thoughtful pause. _"I will give you my Razor, mortal,"_ Dagon continued, as the pieces lifted themselves off the altar and reforged into a perfect whole for the first time in centuries. Dante plucked it carefully out of the air.

" _But be advised, mortal,"_ Dagon continued, _"Dagon does not declare a winner while there is still a piece on the board. Use my Razor to kill the Dragonborn! He has been a thorn in the side of my brethren for long enough!"_

Marcus tensed. This was the moment of truth. He had traveled with the Grey Fox for over a week, and knew his capabilities and impressive skills. Now it came down to character, a quantity about which the Dragonborn could not be certain. But he needn't have worried.

"No," Dante said flatly, having expected this. "I don't serve you, Dagon. I'll use the Razor as _I_ see fit!"

" _You insolent, insignificant worm!"_ Dagon thundered. _"Kill him! Take your rightful place as my Champion, or I WILL CRUSH YOU!"_

"Maybe I wasn't clear enough, Dagon," Dante frowned, irritated. "Let me repeat in case you're hard of hearing. Understandable, I suppose, given your advanced age. I said, _'No…fucking…way.'"_

" _YOU SEEK TO DEFY DAGON?"_ the Prince bellowed. _"FOOLISH MORTAL! SUFFER!"_

A warping sound echoed around the mountaintop as two portals opened and two huge, beefy figures stepped through. Dante had seen sketches of these before. Dremora; and judging from their size, the armor they wore and the weapons they carried, not just any Dremora. These were Dremora Valynaz, the highest level, just shy of Dagon himself. The Prince was pulling no punches.

" _A challenger has appeared!"_ one growled, while the other roared, _"I honor my Lord, by destroying_ you _!"_

"Time to put that pig-sticker to the test!" Marcus called, drawing both his blades.

 _Yes, indeed,_ Dante thought as he dropped to a crouch and invoked Nocturnal's blessing.

It didn't work. The Valynaz closest to him came at him anyway.

" _You cannot hide from the Daedra with a Daedra's blessing!"_ the Valynaz grinned cruelly.

 _Oh, crap,_ Dante blanched, rising to his feet. And then the creature was on him, and it was everything he could do to keep the gigantic Daedric greatsword from cleaving him in two. Across the clearing he heard the Dragonborn battling his own Dremora, but he couldn't take the time to look.

As the greatsword came down, Dante stepped swiftly to one side and sliced the Dremora's side with the Razor. Preternaturally sharp, it opened up the armor and cut deeply. Black ichor oozed from the wound as the Dremora roared in pain. Dante realized that the armor wasn't actually separate from the Oblivion creature, but was more of a thick, hardened outer skin. Regretfully, he knew he wouldn't be able to loot the armor from the corpse – and he had no doubt it would end up a corpse. Until that happened, however, he needed to make sure that greatsword never made contact with him.

Dancing around the Dremora was difficult in the tight confines of the mountaintop Shrine. Between the rocks that made up the base of Dagon's statue, and the altar table near the edge of the cliff, there wasn't much room to maneuver. With the fierceness of the Daedra's attacks, Dante soon found himself back-to-back with the Dragonborn.

Marcus was whirling both dragon bone and Akaviri blades keeping the Dremora's battleaxe from cleaving him in two. He blocked and parried, ducked and riposted. The Dremora was getting the worst of it, but the dragonplate armor was already broken in a handful of places, and blood dripped on the snow.

Dante kept up a stream of frost spells from his off hand, knowing the Dremora were weak against it. He kept the Razor in his right, only because swapping out weapons at this point would have left him open for an attack.

Slashing once more with Mehrunes' own weapon, he was pleased to see another long slice open up across the Dremora's chest, and it howled its fury at him. A lesser man might have quailed, but Dante was not a lesser man. He launched another Ice Spike straight into the demon's face, and it staggered back. Quickly following through, the Breton Guildmaster swiped again with the Razor, and the Dremora stiffened and collapsed. It had only been a glancing blow, Dante knew, but the Dremora was as dead as if he had plunged it directly into the creature's heart.

 _The rumors are true!_ he gloated. _There_ is _a chance to one-shot your enemy!_

Instinctively, he crouched again, though he knew the Dremora fighting the Dragonborn was aware he was there. He circled around to get behind the creature, but it turned and slashed at him with its Daedric battleaxe. Dante quickly tumbled out of the way as Marcus pressed his advantage with the dragonbone sword.

Snarling, the Dremora turned back to the Dragonborn and whirled the battleaxe around as easily as if it were a toy. The blow was staggering, and Marcus fell back a few steps from the force of the blow, but was able to bring his Akaviri blade around to slice across the Dremora's midsection. It would have disemboweled a mortal. The Valynaz merely roared in annoyance and brought the battleaxe around again in response. He made the mistake of forgetting the Nightingale behind him.

"Now we end this!" Dante hissed in his ear as he brought Mehrunes' Razor across the creature's throat.

Gargling, choking on its own ichor, the Dremora went down as its life-blood oozed around it in the snow. Not satisfied yet, Dante opened up its chest and yanked out its heart.

"Was that truly necessary?" Marcus complained, disgusted. "It was already dead. And…thanks, by the way."

"These things are worth money," Dante grinned, as he proceeded to remove the heart of the second Dremora. He wrapped them both in some cloth torn from Silas Vesuius' robe and stashed them in his pack. "Besides, I dabble in alchemy. These can be used in potions to restore one's health."

"Don't tell me," Marcus replied, making a gagging noise. "Tamsyn does alchemy all the time. I'm glad to have the potions, but I don't want to know what's in them!" He surveyed the area. "I suppose we'll have to bury Vesuius."

"I wouldn't," Dante said flatly. "But that's just me. The guy was prepared to bring down the Empire… _again."_

"Let's not forget who put that idea in his head, though," Marcus reminded him, pointing at Justiciar Maldir. "I wonder…" He rummaged through the Justiciar's pockets and found a small packet of letters, holding them up for Dante to see. "Bingo!"

"'Bingo'?" Dante queried, puzzled. "What does that mean?"

Marcus shrugged. "Just an expression where I came from. It simply means I found what I was looking for."

"What do they say?" the Breton man asked eagerly.

"Not here," Marcus said, shaking his head. "Let's wait until we get back to Heljarchen. I know Tamsyn will want to see these."

"What about the Shrine?" Dante asked, giving a nod back towards the doors. He held up a key he had pilfered from one of the Dremora.

"What about it?"

"There's probably some loot in there," Dante pointed out.

Marcus considered this. "You know, if this had been a Shrine to one of the Aedra, I'd have said absolutely not. But this is Dagon we're talking about here."

"I'm glad we're thinking alike on this," Dante grinned. "Besides, he's already pissed at us. Well…at me, specifically."

"Join the club," Marcus laughed with a wry smile. "I think I've already pissed off half the Daedra."

"Then I'm in good company, I think," Dante replied, offering his hand.

Marcus took it and the two men shook hands.

"This doesn't mean I condone what you do, Greyshadow," he warned the Breton Guildmaster as they headed for the door.

"Of course not," Dante smiled. "Consider me an ally against the Thalmor. _How_ I get the intelligence isn't as important as getting it in the first place."

Marcus threw back his head and laughed. "You know, Greyshadow," he grinned, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship!"

He knew the Breton man wouldn't understand the movie reference, but it didn't matter. He found he was genuinely beginning to like this man, who might possibly become the next Emperor of Tamriel.

 _We just need to make sure he lives long enough for that to happen,_ he thought. Whomever the Emperor chose as his successor – _And it won't be_ me, Marcus thought firmly to himself – would find they had a target painted on his back the moment the Dominion found out. Perhaps they needed a candidate like Greyshadow, who already knew how to watch his own back.

Coming to a decision, Marcus waited until they had remounted Odahviing, then directed the dragon to take them to the Tower of Mzark.

"Mzark?" Dante echoed. "What's that? I thought we were headed back to Heljarchen?"

"This is close to home," Marcus nodded, "and there's something I need to show you."

* * *

Dante stared around in awe.

"What _is_ this place?" he murmured. Even his headquarters in the Ayleid ruins under the Imperial City weren't as impressive as this place.

The had entered through a lift in an old Dwemer tower which – as the Dragonborn had said – was close to Heljarchen. The guards at the tower had recognized Marcus at once, and had allowed them to pass after he responded with the correct password. Tamsyn had joined them there with Lydia attending her. The Steward left to return to her duties at home once the Dragonborn arrived.

The lift had descended hundreds of feet into the bowels of the Pale and opened into a large chamber whirring with Dwemer machinery. They passed through the chamber into the hall beyond, and from there to what was considered – for this place – the 'outside.'

From his vantage point at the top of the stone ramp, Dante could see a wide river rushing below them, feeding into a large lake beyond. It was dark, but the realm around him was lit up with luminescent fungi and ores. Glowing mushrooms towered on stalks as thick as a man's body, reaching for a cavern roof lost to the darkness. They passed by what appeared to be a farm yard abundant with mushrooms of all kinds. Here and there, Dante could see patrols of mixed Imperial and Stormcloak troops guarding the cobbled streets. In the gloom, he could barely make out other structures that had been lit with torchlights, and across the way, a large stone fortress was illuminated with an artificial sun of Dwemer construction, that cast a normal, healthy glow over the landscape.

Tamsyn grinned at his wonder.

"This is Blackreach," she told him, sobering. "It's a series of connected underground Dwarven cities with access points here and there above in the overworld. We're using this as a training base, to build up troops and supplies against the Dominion threat."

"Do the Thalmor know about this place?" Dante asked shrewdly.

"Not that we're aware of," Marcus replied. "But in all honestly, we really don't know how much they know. They keep their secrets pretty close to the vest. They haven't attack us here – yet – and as far as we know they haven't infiltrated. Except for the troops in training down here, only a handful of people know about this place."

"A secret this large is bound to get leaked," Dante frowned.

"I know," Marcus nodded. "That's why we're performing diversionary tactics topside."

"What kind of tactics?"

Tamsyn answered for her husband. "We've been seeding their intelligence with false reports of skirmishes breaking out between Stormcloaks and Imperials," she explained. "We want them to think the civil war isn't over yet, but we can't use that forever. We need to start normalizing relations between the two factions soon, or it won't happen at all."

"We've set up ambushes in remote areas to draw them in and take them out," Marcus added. "All we have to do is say 'Talos worshipper,' and the Justiciars come out in droves. They're rather predictable that way."

"How expansive is this…this 'training ground' of yours?" the Guildmaster asked.

"It's huge," Tamsyn admitted. "And we haven't explored all of it yet. We still have to deal with Falmer down here, as well as Dwemer machines that still think their Dwarven masters are here to be protected. Sorine and Calcelmo have been working on repairing and realigning some of them, to get them working again."

"Dwemer machines?" Dante echoed. "I've heard of them."

"You need to see them," the Arch-Mage smiled. "We're very optimistic on their usefulness."

She took the lead and headed for the large stone fortress, which she simply called 'Fort Blackreach.' Four guards stood at the entrance – two Imperial and two Stormcloak, Dante noticed. The artificial sun overhead bathed the area in a warm, yellow glow, and the Breton man could see several towers and ramps rising around the perimeter of the central Debate Hall, as Tamsyn called it.

Inside, Marcus spoke quietly with one of the soldiers and was pointed up the stairs. In a small chamber off the main hall they met with Captain Hadvar, a young Nord in Imperial armor.

"It's good to see you again, Dragonborn," Hadvar grinning, clasping wrists with Marcus. He bowed to Tamsyn. "My lady, you're looking well. I hope the journey hasn't fatigued you?"

"I'm fine, Hadvar," Tamsyn smiled. "I still have a couple months to go. We'd like to introduce you to someone you should know."

"Dante Greyshadow," the Breton man said, stepping forward and extending his hand to clasp wrists. The look of surprise on the Dragonborn's face was worth it, he smirked privately. Clearly, the Imperial hadn't expected him to use his true identity. "I'm also known as Councilor Lance de Fer to his Imperial Majesty, Titus Mede the Second. To my friends in the Guild, I'm the Grey Fox."

Hadvar blinked. "That's a lot of titles for one man," he said slowly. "But I shouldn't be surprised at the company the Dragonborn keeps. We're all in this fight together, and we'll all need to wear different hats."

Dante gave a slight bow. "Precisely," he replied. "I suppose for the purpose of secrecy, you should simply refer to me as the Grey Fox. If word of this place _does_ reach the Dominion, I'd prefer not to have my true name or connection to his Majesty known to them."

"Understood, Guildmaster," Hadvar nodded, and Dante gave the man a mental note of approval. The young Nord was intelligent and had a quick grasp of the importance of secrecy. In his current position, that was critical. He also noticed the small silver stud in the Captain's left ear, the first one he'd seen since being given one by the Dragonborn. It made sense; maintaining contact with their Captains would be essential in coordinating resistance against the Dominion, and he doubted the Thalmor had any such form of communication.

 _It's bad enough they have portals,_ he thought sourly.

"Is this the only place you're training?" he asked now. The thought occurred to him that it would be a bad idea to put all of one's eggs into the same basket. "How can you defend an area this large?"

"It isn't easy," Hadvar admitted. "We still have to fight the Falmer when they come out of their hives, and sometimes the Dwemer machinery here will build another sphere or ballista or Centurion to protect against our invasion of this place, but we're managing. It helped when we moved families down here."

"Families?" Dante echoed.

"We had to," Tamsyn said. "We had so many men and women being rotated from here back to the surface that it was starting to look suspicious. We asked for volunteers to stay down here permanently, and they told anyone who mattered only that they were 'moving' to another part of Skyrim. This city is coming alive again! We're getting merchants, tradesmen and other skilled labor down here. We've had to set up an infirmary to deal with illness and injury, as well as a school to educate the few children that are here. I have a branch of the College of Winterhold set up down here, also, to train up battlemages. J'Zargo is heading that up for me. I should check in with him while I'm here."

"Let's go talk with Sorine," Marcus suggested. "I wanted to show Greyshadow what she and Calcelmo are working on."

"You'll find them in the workshop," Hadvar said. "I have to return to my other duties now. Guildmaster, it was a pleasure to meet you," he added, bowing. "If I can be of service to you in any way, let me know." He touched his ear in an unobtrusive manner, but Dante knew exactly what he meant.

"I'm pleased to have made your acquaintance as well, Captain," Dante replied. "And if I need anything, I'll be sure to let you know." He made the same gesture, touching his ear, and realized this might well become a standard form of farewell for the Alliance.

Marcus led them to another building in the same complex. The cacophony of noise that greeted them upon opening the door made Dante grimace. It was in stark contrast to the quiet beauty around them.

Several workers were scurrying around both levels of this building, which looked as though it had been refitted from some original unknown purpose. Large bronze pipes, at least two feet in diameter, ran through the rooms along the tops of the walls. Steam hissed and pistons pumped; turbines whined and gears churned. If it weren't for the people attending the machines and running here and there, Dante would have thought the place was alive without life.

But it was the center of the room that drew his attention. Two people, an elder Altmer male in mage robes and a middle-aged Breton woman in a distinct steel-and-leather suit of armor were arguing over a large, conical contraption.

"And I tell you again, Sorine," the Altmer insisted, "you have the focus set way too far ahead. It won't be as effective the further out you go from the source."

"Why do you always have to be so negative, Calcelmo?" the Breton woman, Sorine, groused. "Let's just try it and see what happens. I've boosted the capacity of the holding chamber. We can put at least three grand soul gems in there now. It only held one before. That should give us more power for longer distance."

"It's not a question of power!" Calcelmo protested. "It's a matter of diffusion! When your focus is too far away from the source, the light is broken up. It won't be intense enough for you to hit anything with it."

"Is there a problem?" Marcus interrupted, before the argument could go any further.

"Oh! Dragonborn!" Calcelmo started. "No, not a problem. Not really. Sorine and I are just having a disagreement."

"What is this thing?" Dante asked.

Two sets of eyes, a pair of blue and a pair of amber, regarded the Guildmaster with suspicion. Marcus noticed and introduced the Breton man to the two tinkerers.

"Well, I doubt you'd understand," Calcelmo said slowly, "but—"

"We're trying to intensify and focus a beam of light through the crystals in this machine," Sorine explained, enthusiastically, eliciting a scowl from her Altmer colleague. "If everything goes right – and my calculations are correct—" she glared at Calcelmo, "—we should be able to burn through anything at great distances. In fact," her glare intensified, "we were just about to test it."

Calcelmo threw up his hands in defeat. "Fine, fine," he huffed. "Do what you want. Just don't say I didn't tell you!"

Sorine beamed as she had finally gotten her way.

"Now, I'll just set the coordinates here…" She pushed a few buttons on the lighted control panel, and the cone-shaped machine swung around on its spherical base to point away from the group, pointing out the window of the tower.

"What are you shooting at?" Marcus asked, concerned. If this thing worked, he didn't want anyone to get hurt.

"There's a large lake in that direction that we can see from here," Sorine explained. "We've been trying to hit some of the stalactites in the roof over that lake with this beam, but we haven't managed to do it yet."

Calcelmo harrumphed under his breath. Sorine ignored him.

"Now, I'll just throw this switch here," she said, doing so, "and…"

Nothing happened. A beam of light emitted from the nozzle of the cone, but it was diffused, and faded several feet from its source. Sorine's face fell. To his credit, Calcelmo kept his face impassive.

"It didn't work," Sorine moaned, stating the obvious. "Why didn't it work? I was _sure_ …"

Before Calcelmo could speak – and start another potential argument – Marcus spoke up. "I think you're on the right track, Sorine," he said kindly. "But I think Calcelmo also has a point. You're losing too much of the light intensity from the get-go. Try refocusing that light by bouncing it off mirrors inside the cone. Also, maybe the cone isn't the right shape. Maybe a cylinder would work better."

Sorine's face cleared. Even Calcelmo's pointed ears perked up.

"Of course!" he exclaimed. "If we target the first mirror and bounce the light back and forth—"

"—we could build up enough intensity all along the length of the chamber," Sorine added.

"And that would force the beam of light to remain compact enough upon leaving the cylinder to retain its intensity for a longer distance," Marcus finished.

"I have an idea!" Calcelmo exclaimed as he grabbed a piece of paper and a bit of charcoal and began sketching. Sorine huddled closer and the two began collaborating on a new design.

Marcus chuckled as he, Tamsyn and Dante left the two inventors to it.

"Dragonborn," Dante began soberly, "what were they doing?"

"They're trying to build a laser gun," Marcus said quietly. "Sorine was already on the right track when I first met her, not long ago. She just needed the right resources and support."

"What will that thing do, if they get it working?" Dante asked. "Sorine said it would 'cut through anything.' _What_ anything?"

"Dominion troops, I'm hoping," Marcus replied. The look on his face was grim. "I'm not exactly thrilled with the idea of cutting living creatures in two with that thing, but if we don't, _we'll_ be the ones cut in half by Dominion forces. This is our very existence we're talking about."

Dante said nothing. Indeed, there was nothing he could add to that, but the thought of being literally cut in two by a beam of light shocked him.

In the yard behind the workshop, several apprentices were working on assorted Dwemer machines, in varying degrees of construction. Dante saw several spiders crawling around, as well as one or two spheres. Across the way, a Centurion stood sentinel, steaming quietly in its docking bay.

"These are all ours," Tamsyn told him. "Calcelmo, Sorine and their team have managed to rebuild these, based on the remains of the ones we've had to destroy to make this place safe and habitable. The controllers use a kind of helmet we found in the Silent City Catacombs. The team took it apart to see what made it work, and figured out how to make new ones that will control the automatons. It seems that the more complex the construct is, the higher level of soul gem is needed in the helmet to control it. The Centurions take grand soul gems. The spiders are managed with lessers. We fill them with the souls of animals."

"That's fine for smaller soul gems," Dante said, "but the larger ones work best with human souls. How do you manage that?"

"One of the Dwemer machines we found seems to be some sort of soul gem converter," Tamsyn explained. "For lack of a better term, it takes smaller souls, like vermin and animals, and compresses them, filling larger gems like greater and grand soul gems as well as if they had human souls. I have a team of enchanters here working to create another machine like it to use at the College."

"Where do you get all the soul gems?" Dante asked.

"There are ore veins all around Blackreach that produce them," Tamsyn explained. "That's why we have miners down here as well as soldiers. We've found other veins of ores, too. Mining those helps to finance this operation. In addition, there are tithes that come in from other sources that keep us going."

"Other sources?"

"Some of the Jarls contribute," Marcus said. "They know the importance of the work we're doing here, and they trust us." He didn't name names.

Dante said nothing as Tamsyn led them out of Fort Blackreach and headed back to Tower Mzark. There, they took the lift to a lower level, closer to the river, where scores of mages were training in all schools of magic. A Khajiit in Expert robes came over to greet them.

"Ah, Arch-Mage Tamsyn! J'Zargo is pleased to see you again. You have come to inspect the troops, no?"

"How goes the training, J'Zargo?" Tamsyn smiled.

"Very well, very well," the big striped cat grinned, showing all his teeth. "J'Zargo is especially pleased with the Illusion Adepts. They have just mastered the _Rally_ spell and will soon be working on the _Frenzy Rune._ "

"What about the Conjuration Experts?" Tamsyn inquired. "From your last report, they were working on Storm Atronachs."

J'Zargo hesitated. "They are…not doing so well," he admitted. "It is easier to summon fire or frost than it is to summon storm."

Tamsyn frowned. "We _need_ them to be able to summon the Storm Atronachs, J'Zargo. The Dominion will certainly be summoning them against us."

"J'Zargo knows this, Arch-Mage," the Khajiit nodded. "J'Zargo will concentrate his efforts in this area."

"Did you get the tome I sent you for Dispel Magic?"

The big cat grinned again. "Oh yes, Arch-Mage! There are a handful of Expert-level student working on that spell right now. It doesn't seem to fit into any particular school of magic that J'Zargo is familiar with, however."

"It's a Mysticism spell," Tamsyn told the Khajiit. "It's one of the spells the Dominion was keeping from us. My friend Sylfaen gave it to me the last time I saw her."

"J'Zargo himself is learning this one, Arch-Mage," he assured her. "It is too valuable and useful to be forgotten."

"Who do you have helping you?" Tamsyn asked, looking around at the students practicing their craft.

"Onmund was here until last week, when he returned to Winterhold," J'Zargo admitted. "J'Zargo has yet to receive a replacement."

"I'll get someone out here before the week is out," Tamsyn promised. "You should have called me. We can't let this training lag."

"J'Zargo understands," he nodded enthusiastically, now that his dilemma was resolved. "We _will_ be ready when the time comes!"

"This is quite the set-up," Dante complimented her as they took the lift upwards once more.

"It's not like the College," Tamsyn admitted modestly, "but they're doing some fine work here. I just hope it will be enough. I have Thalmor spies watching my every move at the College. We can't do any kind of magic they deem to be 'advanced enough to use against the Dominion.' That's why most of the Adept-level and higher courses are taught here."

"And you're certain the Dominion knows nothing of this?" Dante asked skeptically. "All these people down here, and all the people at your College, and _none_ of them talk about this place to the wrong person?"

Marcus said nothing, looking at Tamsyn to answer.

"We haven't had any outright attacks on any of our installations," Tamsyn said. "I think part of the reason for that is that the Dominion knows it would be seen as an attack on the Empire. And they're not quite ready themselves to open that can of worms."

"'Can of worms'?" Dante repeated, puzzled.

"It's an expression," Tamsyn shrugged. "Once you open a can of worms, they only way to put them all back is to get a bigger can. If the Dominion launched a full-scale assault on any of the bases we have hidden around Skyrim, it would require them to be prepared to face the Empire once more in an all-out war. Right now, I'm fairly confident they've crunched the numbers and decided the cost is too high. They don't want a repeat of the Battle of the Red Ring. They'd have to fight a battle on too many fronts. If they _do_ know about this place, they would want to take it out quietly. They would infiltrate, send in spies, learn our weaknesses from the inside."

"And I say again," Dante insisted, "how do you know this hasn't already happened?"

Sighing, Tamsyn explained. "I'm the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold. I'm very good at magic. _Very_ good," she emphasized sternly, with no false modesty. "All of the people that enter and leave Blackreach – or any of our training areas – do so through only a small handful of access points. I've enchanted each of those access points with a binding spell. Unless you are of a certain level in the hierarchy here – like Hadvar or J'Zargo – the ordinary mage or soldier or tradesman is bound to say nothing about it. They might want to, might even open their mouths to do so, but they won't be able to. Fighting the binding just makes it stronger. So even…" she hesitated. "Even under torture, they wouldn't be able to talk about it. I had to make it that way. Too much is at risk to do otherwise."

"Alright," Dante acknowledged. "What about the others? The ones who are, by your own admission, 'high enough in the hierarchy' to be free from that binding? What's to prevent them from speaking out of turn?"

"They wouldn't have been chosen for their positions if they couldn't be relied upon to keep their mouths shut," Marcus answered. "But there's a lesser binding on them. They can't talk about it to outsiders, to anyone who doesn't already know. You won't be able to mention this to the Emperor, or anyone in your organization, unless Tamsyn lifts the binding from you."

"Which I'm not prepared to do at this point," Tamsyn pointed out. "You're too far away from us, and too close to the Dominion to take the risk."

"What about you two?" Dante demanded, just to be perverse. "You're talking to me about it."

"We know we can trust ourselves," Marcus grinned. "We're the exception to the rule. As are a handful of others in our inner circle. We know we can trust them to say nothing."

On a certain level, Dante appreciated this. The fewer people who knew a secret, the better it could be kept. His mentor, Praxus, used to say, "Two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead." But a dead Dragonborn and Arch-Mage wouldn't save the Empire. This was – as far as solutions went – a better one than most. Still, he couldn't help but wonder what it would take to achieve the rank of 'inner circle.'

* * *

Dante watched carefully as the Dragonborn and his wife sifted through the documents he'd brought, as well as the packet of papers he and the Dragonborn had taken from Justiciar Maldir. They had returned to Heljarchen, and Dante's mind still reeled with what he had seen in Blackreach. An entire training grounds – no, an entire _city_ – dedicated to defeating the Dominion! He wondered if there were other installations hidden under Skyrim of which he was unaware, but found he couldn't form the words to ask. The binding spell was in full force. Still, it was exciting to be even just a little bit on the inside of this operation.

Now, as Marcus and Tamsyn read each of his dossiers thoroughly, he appreciated their dedication and wasn't offended at all that they chose to familiarize themselves with the intelligence he'd gathered. It was entirely possible they could have corroborating information of which he was unaware, that might make his information that much clearer. It seemed this was the case, as the Arch-Mage sat back with a sigh.

"I was afraid of this," she said, pointing to one report. "The Dominion has infiltrated the court at Wayrest in High Rock. They're stirring up trouble over there, keeping the Houses fighting against each other."

"It looks like things are heating up in Hammerfell, too," Marcus added, lifting the report he'd been reading. "The Redguards have accused the Dominion of attempting to lay claim to the island city of Stros M'Kai in the Abacean Sea. The language the Dominion used in that report was just short of condescending. If that's how they're treating the nobles in Hammerfell, it won't be long before they come to blows again."

"I don't know if Hammerfell can withstand another full-on assault from the Summerset Isles," Tamsyn reflected. "They fought the Dominion once before, after the Great War ended, but it cost them heavily."

"It cost the Dominion equally as much," Dante pointed out. "I think they might just be bashing shields at this point, but it wouldn't hurt to stay informed. I'll let the Emperor know."

"Not that it will do much good," Marcus rumbled. "Hammerfell doesn't trust Titus Mede. He flung them to the wolves in order to save Cyrodiil's backside and end the Great War."

"That's why it might be a good idea to start mending fences," Dante pointed out. "And who better to make such overtures than someone who has the Emperor's ear?"

Marcus said nothing, but rolled his eyes.

"I'm more concerned about what's happening in High Rock," Dante frowned. "It looks like the Dominion's 'divide-and-conquer' tactics are in full swing again. If they are successful in cutting High Rock out of the Empire, there's little chance it could withstand another assault from the Dominion."

"They've been at it for quite some time, it would appear," Tamsyn agreed, "but Marcus and I haven't been in Tamriel long enough to see what's been going on over there."

Marcus threw her a sharp look. Dante saw this and raised an eyebrow.

"You mean 'in Skyrim,' don't you?" he asked the two of them, looking from one to the other curiously.

For a long moment, Marcus glared at his defiant wife.

"He needs to know," was all the Breton girl said, meeting his gaze steadily.

At length the Dragonborn sighed, caving. "Fine," he muttered. "If you think it's necessary."

"I do," Tamsyn nodded soberly. "This isn't something I'm taking lightly, Marcus. Especially in light of his background."

Curiosity strained to the breaking point, Dante waited patiently while Marcus closed the door to the study and Tamsyn cast a Muffle spell at the door. Barbas, he noted, had been permitted to stay, and was lying next to the fire. He looked to be asleep, but Dante now knew better.

"What I tell you must be kept in the strictest confidence," Tamsyn warned, a glitter in her eyes. "Only three other people outside this room know the truth, and I don't include Lydia or Gregor in that number," she added. "I confided very early on, when we first came here, in someone we first met, in order to get their help. I knew then I was taking a risk, but my trust has not been betrayed. I won't name that person. The less you know, the better. Cicero is the second, because I needed to prove to him that I trusted him. He's repaid that trust time and again, and I'm actually quite fond of the little madman. The third is someone Marcus recently met. In point of fact, he wouldn't have confided to that person at all, but a certain Daedric dog couldn't keep his mouth shut."

" _Hey, I said I was sorry,"_ Barbas whined.

Marcus cut in. "I thought you told Sylfaen?"

Tamsyn shook her head. "Sylfaen knows who my father is, but not where I'm from. I didn't tell her that."

"And now you're going to tell me?" Dante prompted. He decided to save the question about who her father was for another time. No sense in pushing his luck.

"I think we have to," Tamsyn nodded. "You see, Marcus and I are not from Tamriel. We're not even from this world." She paused a moment to let that sink in before informing the Grey Fox of hers and the Dragonborn's unique origins. It took a long time.

Dante said nothing for several moments after she finished. If he hadn't traveled with the Dragonborn for the past week, if he hadn't seen Blackreach, he would have thought the two were touched by Sheogorath. He still wasn't certain that might not be the case.

Dante had never been a very religious man; his formative years had not given him much reason to believe the gods had any interest in the lives of men and mer. Nonna had attempted several times to take him with her to the nearby temple of Mara, but as soon as he was old enough to assert himself, he had refused, and she hadn't pressed the issue. He paid lip service to the Nine – including Talos only because he knew it infuriated the Thalmor – but his soul already belonged to Nocturnal, and had for many years.

"So…all this was just a…a _game_ where you came from?" he queried.

Tamsyn nodded. "Well, most of it," she qualified. "We've sort of gone off the beaten path with a few things. Especially where the Thalmor are concerned."

"This is how you know so much of what might happen," Dante quirked a grin at Tamsyn. "You're a fraud!"

"I beg your pardon!" she snorted indignantly. "I'll have you know I've dived quite deeply into the Divination pool. I'm well aware that my knowledge of what happened in the game I played will eventually run dry. It's one reason I spend most of my days at the College in meditation, to follow the threads of possibilities to their conclusions, to find which ones have the best results."

"And have you come to any of those conclusions regarding the current threads of Thalmor interference?" Dante asked, sincerely. There was no mockery in his question now, Tamsyn was pleased to see. It warmed her to him that much more.

"I have," she replied. "What you and Marcus found on that Justiciar, Maldir, was only confirmation that the Dominion intended to use Silas to precipitate another coup by assassinating Emperor Titus Mede the Second. Maldir's orders were to kill Silas if they couldn't turn him to their cause. It was they who approached Silas when he was much younger, and informed him of his rather infamous ancestors. They guided him along, spun glory tales for him about what the world might have been like if the Mythic Dawn had succeeded. They convinced him that it was his destiny to bring that glory back to Tamriel. Silas was the one who learned where all the pieces of the Razor were, and somehow, he acquired the scabbard. The Dominion hoped he would be able to get it reforged. They couldn't know, of course, that he was never going to make that happen. If he had, they would have persuaded him to head down to Cyrodiil, to the Imperial City, for some good old-fashioned anarchy."

"Won't they try again?" Marcus asked, dubious.

"They don't know I have it," Dante said confidently. "We took out Maldir, his guards, and Vesuius, in addition to those Dremora. If anyone were to poke around up there at Dagon's shrine, they'd find the bodies, but nothing else, and they'd have no idea where the Razor ended up."

"He's right, dear," Tamsyn agreed. "For all the Dominion knows, a bandit passing by could have taken it off one of the bodies. Or they might assume Dagon reclaimed it. At the very least, they might send operatives into Dawnstar to find out what happened to Vesuius. The townsfolk would only know that he left town quickly and never came back."

She pierced Dante with a keen stare. "You'll have to realize that the Razor is rather unique in appearance, however. If you use it, someone is bound to take note of it."

"Oh, I intend to use it," Dante said blandly. "But I don't intend to let anyone see me do it." He let that sit there before continuing. "I'm honored by your confidence in me to keep your secret," he said soberly. "I don't pretend to understand why the gods chose you, to bring you to our world, but it's clear they felt we needed some outside perspective to help us through a difficult time. I won't betray your trust. You have the word of the Grey Fox on that."

"Thank you," Marcus said sincerely. "The fewer people who know, the better. I would have preferred that no one but the two of us knew, but faith and trust go both ways. We're putting our faith in you to keep the secret, and you can trust us to keep yours until the time is right to reveal it. We don't want the Dominion targeting you. We've got your back."

"Thank you," Dante bowed. "I don't know how much you'll be able to watch it from all the way up here in Skyrim, but the sentiment is appreciated."

"You'd be surprised how long our reach can be," Tamsyn grinned. "Now, let's take a closer look at the other papers you brought. We'll need to send someone into High Rock—"

"That's my job, sweetheart," Marcus told her.

"But we also have to look into this matter in Hammerfell," Tamsyn protested. "That one seems a bit more urgent."

"Leave that one to me," Dante smiled, thinking once more of Saadia. "I may have a connection there that will help."

Tamsyn huffed at the two men. "Honestly, you two surprise me," she complained. "Master Greyshadow, I would have thought you'd jump at the chance to return to High Rock."

Dante shook his head. "Someday, perhaps," he demurred. "But the time isn't right. Let the Dragonborn find out what he can. See if House Montrose has ties to the Dominion, and find out what the other Houses are doing. Are they aligning themselves with the King of High Rock, or are they jockeying for position?"

"Why House Montrose in particular?" Marcus asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Personal reasons," Dante replied. "Perhaps one day I'll tell you, but not today."

The Dragonborn shrugged. "I'll find out," he promised.

"In the meantime, I think I'll pay a visit to a contact of mine and see about making a trip to Hammerfell. I have only one favor to ask, Arch-Mage."

"Oh?"

"Yes. May I have a few more of those ear buds?" Dante grinned. "I'd like for my Inner Circle to be able to stay in contact with each other, as well as with me."

Tamsyn smiled. "Of course. I trust you'll be able to keep them out of the hands of the Dominion?"

"I'll do my best."

Dante felt a thrill of excitement run through him. Things were beginning to come together! The news about the Dragonborn and the Arch-Mage was startling, but not unnerving. Due to his harsh upbringing, he had never concerned himself much with the Aedra, but it seemed the gods were favoring him now. He knew he'd have to have a conversation soon with the Emperor – at the very least, to inform him his choice of heir had politely declined. Well, at least he'd tell Titus Mede it was polite. He _was_ a diplomat now, after all. In light of the recent Dominion activities, he felt he could put forth a very convincing argument to Titus Mede the Second exactly _why_ they needed the Dragonborn out in the field, taking the fight to the Thalmor.

There were still quite a lot of rumors to run down, he knew, and information to verify before any kind of next step could be considered. Dante knew all too well that the Empire was too weak to withstand a concerted assault from the Dominion. While all the reports he'd received indicated the Aldmeri were biding their time, he knew it was imperative to find out just how much more time they had before the hourglass ran out. As it stood right now, unless more allies could be brought in to stand with them, the Empire would crumble and fall.

It was time to hit the books, Dante realized. Time to analyze the methods the Dominion used in the past, correlate that with the information they now had, and try to determine when and where the Thalmor would strike. It would take some of that precious little time they still had, he knew, but the alternative was unthinkable.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Next up, what's happening at the White Gold Tower? And we head to High Rock and Hammerfell to find out what the Thalmor have been up to.]_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 _[Author's Note: a thousand and one apologies for the delay in this chapter. I lost my job in October, and the Spanish class I was taking to help me with the job I lost finished in December. On the plus side, I got an "A" in my class. I've been battling physical ailments off and on, with depression issues into the bargain; not just my issues, but my family's in general as well. This has not really been a good year, but I'm hopeful for the next one. I am so grateful for everyone who has liked, favorited and followed both my stories, and me as a writer. It is greatly appreciated. And now, on to Chapter 5.]_

* * *

Ashabareth Vaneris studied the mer carefully as she swept the floor of the throne room. He was Altmer, certainly, like her, but with a cruel twist to his mouth. He was Thalmor, as well, and that fact sent a warning chill up her spine. She didn't recognize him, but knew he was a high-ranking official from the stripes on his sleeve. First Emissary Gwaiden, he was called, and he represented Dominion interests in Cyrodiil. Though he did not live in the White-Gold Tower, he was still a regular presence at court. He paid no attention to her as he passed, on his way to Titus Mede's throne. Asha trusted that Galathil's work hid her former identity from the Thalmor operative. Sketches of her still hung on walls and fence posts from Firsthold to Alinor.

This was the third time this week that Emissary Gwaiden sought audience with the Emperor. Asha drifted closer, keeping her head down and concentrating on sweeping, while keeping both sharp ears open.

"Has your Eminence given any consideration to my proposal?" Gwaiden asked, though his tone implied it was more of a command.

"I've thought of little else," Titus Mede replied. "What you're asking me to do is to secede a large portion of the Gold Coast over to the Aldmeri Dominion."

"Not a large portion," Gwaiden assured him. "Just enough to build a small port on the coast to ease the burden of traffic from all the ships coming into Anvil."

"And thereby bypass all my customs agents," the Emperor frowned. "You know I won't do that. Why do you even ask?"

"Your Eminence, the Dominion only wishes to increase the flow of trade between our Provinces, nothing more," Gwaiden insisted. "With the Civil War in Skyrim settling down, by all accounts, it is more than likely that both the Empire and the Dominion can profit from the opportunities that will arise as the Nords demand more goods from both Alinor and Cyrodiil which they have, until recently, been unable to acquire."

"Skyrim has at least three cities reachable by ship," the Emperor pointed out. "You have your Ambassador there…what's his name again?"

"Cirdain, your majesty," the First Emissary replied. "Ramallion zh'a Cirdain. Why bring him up?"

"He's your representative there, isn't he?" Titus Mede drawled, shrewdly. "Shouldn't he be the one to arrange trade matters between Skyrim and the Summerset Isles?"

"The Ambassador is still relatively new to his position," Gwaiden said stiffly. "He hasn't had time to make all the business connections Ambassador Elenwen cultivated over the years. I am merely attempting to make his job easier."

"Ah, yes, Elenwen," Titus Mede murmured. "Very sad business, that." His tone implied he was anything but distraught. He also knew a lie when he heard it. First Emissary Gwaiden could not possibly care less about Thalmor agents in Skyrim than he did right now. "But getting back to the business at hand, Emissary; I cannot and will not allow any seceding of land to Alinor for the purpose of building any Dominion port, fortress or fortification on sovereign Imperial soil. Not now, not ever. I'm surprised you even had the temerity to ask. You may have won the Great War thirty years ago, but this is still Cyrodill, and I am still its Emperor!"

"I see."

Gwaiden's response was terse and his body language shifted to just short of hostile. Asha gripped her broom tighter. Hidden in the handle was a thin, rapier-like blade, more commonly used ages ago in Akavir, but not completely uncommon here in the Imperial City. If the Emissary made one wrong move, she would be on him in a heartbeat, and Aedra damn the consequences. She had her orders.

"I will, of course, inform my superiors of your decision, your Eminence," the First Emissary said, getting himself under control. "They will not take this rejection kindly."

"That is not my concern, Emissary," Titus Mede frowned. "I am still upholding the White-Gold Concordat within my Province. But that doesn't give the Dominion the right to issue orders to me, nor to expect me to simply hand the Empire over to them to be dissected and discarded."

"Of course," Gwaiden smiled, but it was not a friendly one. "No one questions your right to rule your… _Empire_ …as you see fit, for whatever time left the Aedra have given you." There was an unmistakable sneer as he spoke the word, 'Empire.' "The Dominion can wait a bit longer to get what we want. We are used to it."

With that parting shot, the First Emissary bowed and left, escorted by the two Penitus Occulatus guards who stood near the wide, double-doors. The Throne Room was now empty except for the Emperor and the chambermaid.

Titus Mede blew out a breath and rose painfully and unsteadily to his feet. Asha ran over and put a hand under his elbow to steady him.

"Thank you," he smiled kindly. "Help me over to that chair by the window, if you would, please."

"Of course, Sire," she murmured quietly. Carefully, slowly, she lent her support until he was able to lower himself gingerly into the cushioned chair covered with plush purple velvet, emitting a sigh as he did so.

"I hate that damned throne," he complained. "It's too hard, and it makes my old bones ache."

"Would you like another cushion, Sire?" she asked solicitously.

"No," he chuckled, "but I thought you were going to make a _pin-cushion_ of the Emissary."

"Sire?"

"Oh, don't give me that, girl," the Emperor frowned. "I know who you work for. My newest Councilor, de Fer, set you up here, didn't he?"

Asha relaxed slightly, and let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. "Yes, Sire," she replied. There was no point in hiding that much, at least. As long as the Emperor still thought of the Boss as 'Lance de Fer,' all was still good.

The Emperor wheezed, still laughing. "I haven't seen an Akaviri zatoichi in a long time. Clever of you to disguise it as a broom. Where did you come by such a weapon?"

Asha shrugged helplessly. "I inherited it," she murmured, quietly, keeping her head bowed. There was certainly more to Titus Mede than most people gave him credit for. Perhaps that was why he was still around, and still Emperor. _Note to self, Asha,_ she thought privately. _Don't underestimate Titus Mede the Second._

"Still, I don't believe the Emissary would have attempted murder," the old Imperial went on, almost as if to himself. "He's no fool, like that Amaund Motierre." He sighed and stared out the window. "No, he'll just wait until I finally join the Aedra in Aetherius to make his move here. The Dominion will swoop in, and there will be nobody and nothing to stop them."

"It hasn't happened yet, Sire," Asha soothed.

"No, but it's coming soon," the Emperor frowned.

At a gesture from him, she went to the sideboard and poured a goblet of wine for him. She gave it a surreptitious sip, unnoticed, and detected nothing. Returning, she presented it to him, waiting while he drained the cup and handed it back to her before he spoke again.

"If I don't have an heir soon, the Empire _will_ fall," the Emperor muttered. "The only one who can hold it all together is the Dragonborn. He's _got_ to agree to be my heir. There _is_ no one else!"

Asha knew her Boss's plan. She was in the Inner Circle. But he hadn't played his card yet, so she held her tongue, though she was thoroughly confused. Why would the Emperor confide his private thoughts to her, a mere servant? Perhaps like most nobles, he didn't see her as an actual person, beyond her ability to assist and fetch for him. She was more like an extension of the furnishings. She tried to relax, but the knowledge that the Emperor knew she was potentially more than household staff set her nerves on edge.

Brooding, Titus Mede turned his face to the window and stared out over his city. Asha retreated to the far end of the room to give the old man his privacy. Gathering up the rat traps near the fireplace – skeevers, thankfully, were Skyrim's problem, not Cyrodiil's – she considered the Emperor's words.

No, the Emissary wouldn't attempt an outright attack against the Emperor's person. That would have been very foolish. It was entirely possible, however, that a subtler approach to murder might be attempted, which was why she had sipped the wine before giving it to him. Asha knew over seventy different kinds of poisons, and had built up an immunity to most of them. She could determine the faintest traces in food or drink, and had even researched a spell that would nullify most of them. The Boss knew this, which was one of the reasons he had chosen her for this task.

Asha watched the Emissary covertly and carefully for the next few days, but except for a slight curling of the lip when he spoke to the Emperor – which the Imperial chose to ignore – there was nothing in his manner that indicated he was willing to take the next step towards eliminating Titus Mede. Asha did not relax her guard. She remained present during court functions by virtue of her status as a chambermaid, and thus considered too unimportant to be noticed by most of the lackeys and sycophants that populated the White Gold Tower.

Drelan Suvaris was a frequent visitor, posing as a Dunmer dignitary with overtures of friendship from Morrowind. On those days when he was present at court, Asha felt some of the tension leave her, knowing there was an extra set of eyes watching the Emperor's back. Why the Boss had decided to protect the old Imperial was really none of her business. The Grey Fox gave the orders, and the likes of her obeyed. One might have thought, however, that he would have been happy to have the Ruby Throne vacated so he could step in. But the Grey Fox never did things so haphazardly and carelessly. He had a plan; and if he chose not to share the details with his Inner Circle at this time, it was not for her to question.

 _Stick to the plan,_ she told herself. _The Boss knows what he's doing._

For Drelan's part, he knew the offers of trade were tempting to the Emperor. It was the percentages that were unacceptable. That was deliberate. With the Empire receiving only thirty percent of the revenues, he knew Titus Mede would reject the offer, but not outright. Haggling over the details would keep him at court for a week or more. Hopefully it would be enough time for the Boss to conclude his business up north. He just hoped the Grey Fox would return before anything had to be signed. He wasn't sure how House Redoran, the ruling body of Morrowind at the moment, would react to someone from House Hlaalu negotiating on their behalf.

"What you propose has possibilities, Lord Suvaris," the Emperor said now. "But the terms are not very favorable for the Empire. You offer resources which can only be found in Morrowind, and that's very appealing, as is the right to mine those resources ourselves, though I'm not sure it's worth our efforts for only a thirty percent share. In return, you're asking us to come to your aid on your southern border should Black Marsh move against you. Are relations with the Argonians that fragile in that area?"

Drelan snorted. "Relations between the Argonians and my people have always been tenuous, your Eminence," he replied. "We don't have any conclusive proof of aggressions right now, but our scouts report some heightened activity across the border from Stormhold to Thorn. It never hurts to be prepared." This much was true, Drelan knew. The Grey Fox's network of spies kept him well informed on activities across Tamriel.

"Your majesty, I must protest," Emissary Gwaiden interjected. "The Argonians are a peaceful people who only wish to be left alone to live in their marshes. What sort of 'heightened activity' are you referring to, Lord Suvaris?"

Drelan turned to face the Emissary. "If you'll forgive me for speaking bluntly, my lord, I believe I can clarify what I mean. With your permission, of course, your Eminence," he added, turning back to Titus Mede, who gave a nod of his head and a languid wave of his hand. The gleam of interest in his eyes, however, belied his indifference.

"Stormhold was an abandoned prison not that long ago," Drelan said. "To our unending shame it was a place to house slaves until we could sell them. But slavery was abolished over two hundred years ago, and Stormhold fell into ruin. Over the decades, rumors have abounded that it has even become haunted with a variety of undead and restless spirits. Why are there now influxes of Argonians entering that fortress?"

"Perhaps they are merely taking advantage of an Imperial structure they do not have to build themselves," Gwaiden suggested. "The solidity and permanency of Imperial architecture – especially that of the third era – is well-known. Why wouldn't the Argonians want to claim the place and build it up into a city of their own? And it is well known that the lizard-folk are not as superstitious as your people."

This was most definitely an insult, Drelan knew, but he refused to rise to the bait.

"Argonians don't live in stone buildings," he said flatly. "They live in mud huts."

"There speaks the ignorance of the Dunmer," Gwaiden scoffed. "Argonians of the last century lived in mud huts, it's true. Argonians of _this_ century choose a different lifestyle. And why shouldn't they? It's their Province. Your Eminence, this is all posturing for nothing. Black Marsh is no threat to Morrowind. However," and here the Emissary's voice hardened, "if Morrowind _did_ attempt an invasion of the Argonian Province, the Dominion would _have_ to lend assistance to an ally that – while not actually a part of the Dominion itself – has nevertheless lent aid to us when required." The implied warning could not have been clearer: Gwaiden expected "Lord Suvaris" to take his message back to Morrowind, and any ally of Morrowind could expect the same response.

"Emissary Gwaiden does have a point," Titus Mede mused. "I'm sorry, Lord Suvaris, but I cannot commit my troops to any action that would be viewed as a potential act of aggression by the Altmer, nor break the agreements set forth in the White-Gold Concordat."

Emissary Gwaiden shifted ever so slightly, but his posture indicated a certain proprietary smugness.

Undaunted, Drelan bowed. "I understand, your Eminence," he said. "Then perhaps I might suggest another offer, equally lucrative?"

"I'm certainly willing to listen to anything you have to say," Titus Mede nodded. "And I applaud your perseverance in mending fences with the Empire. I would not have expected that, given our relationship with Morrowind over the past two hundred years. I believe your government told my predecessors that it would be a 'cold day in Oblivion' before they would ever deal with the Empire again."

Drelan glanced towards the Thalmor Emissary, who regarded him warily, and smiled. "I believe the climate is cooling down there, your Majesty," he said urbanely. The grin widened slightly as the Altmer's eyes turned to chips of amber.

In spite of Drelan's charm and gift for persuasion, no agreements had been entered into during the next several days. Both the Dunmer and his Altmer compatriot were relieved. It meant less scrambling later to pull off the scams proposed by Drelan in the Grey Fox's absence. Titus Mede was still interested in 'mending fences', as he put it, with Morrowind, and so invited 'Lord Suvaris' to stay on for another week.

* * *

Late in the evening, two figures, darkly cloaked, tapped on a hidden door leading into Drelan's apartment in the White Gold Tower. He opened it quietly and allowed Beor and Asha to step into the room. A glowstick held by Beor had illuminated their way through the hidden corridors between the walls of the White-Gold Tower. The Boss had discovered them shortly after becoming Councilor, and he had revealed them to Asha when he secured the position for her.

"Anyone see you two leave your posts?" Drelan asked quietly.

"I'm off-duty tonight," Beor announced, and Asha nodded her agreement.

"I, as well," she concurred. "Once the Emperor is settled for the night, my time is my own."

"Any word from the Boss?" Drelan asked.

"I haven't seen any couriers," Beor replied, shaking his head.

"Nothing has come to the Emperor," Asha said. "I haven't received anything, either. Have you heard anything from Reydin?"

"No," Drelan frowned. "I hope this isn't going to take much longer. I'm not really cut out for this play-acting stuff. Give me numbers to crunch or letters to forge, instead. That Thalmor out there makes me nervous."

"You're doing a fine job so far," Asha praised. "Just keep doing what you're doing. Make offers you know the Emperor won't accept, but keep him interested."

"I'm trying," Drelan complained. "But I'm running out of ideas. Beor, anything going on down in the town?"

"There's a carnival setting up in the Arena District," the young Nord replied. "Other than that, everything else has been pretty quiet out there. There was a bit of a scuffle down at the docks yesterday, though, and some crates got smashed, but that's about it."

"Crates?" Asha asked, perking up. "What was in them?"

"Small animals for the carnival, mostly," Beor replied, his brow furrowing. "Why? It's not important, is it?"

"I'm not sure," Asha murmured, gold eyes narrowing in concentration. "I heard some of the scullery maids talking about going to that fair this week. There are reportedly several entertainers involved, including a bear trainer, someone with some trained dogs, and…" Her eyes widened. "A snake charmer from Elsweyr," she breathed. Whirling on the young Nord she demanded, "Were there snakes in those crates?"

Beor's eyes widened. "Yes," he breathed. "That was part of the scuffle, getting them all rounded up. You don't think…?"

"We can't take that chance," Drelan replied, worry furrowing his brow. "Asha, can you get us into the Emperor's private chambers?"

"Yes," the Altmer woman nodded. "It's this way."

She led them back to the hidden passage and they hurried through the dusty corridors and staircases between the walls of the White Gold Tower. Asha held the glowstick now, since she knew the way, her mind racing ahead of her feet.

"Beor," she murmured quietly, "what kind of snakes were in those crates?"

"Mostly harmless ones," the young Nord admitted, "but there were some vipers in it as well. Wouldn't be a very exciting show if there wasn't _some_ risk involved, you know."

"We'd better pray we're wrong about this," Drelan muttered behind him as he ran. "And if we are, we'd better have a good back-up story about why we've invaded the Emperor's private chambers at this hour of the night."

The dusty hallway ended in a blank wall, but Asha stuffed the glowstick into her apron pocket, releasing a hidden catch to open the panel into the Throne Room, behind an decorative screen set to one side of the ornate chair where Titus Mede usually sat during the day. They peered out cautiously into the large chamber.

A shadow moved to their right, at the far end of the room, and they shrank back, invisible in their dark work clothes; Asha had tied a dark scarf over her gold-blonde hair. The figure moved silently across the room and slipped out through the door that led to the more public Great Hall.

"They've already been in the Emperor's room!" Asha hissed, and felt her heart jump to her throat.

"We'll go after that one," Drelan whispered harshly. "He won't be leaving the Tower. Get to the Emperor, Asha! Make sure he's unharmed!" The two men took off after the shadowy figure.

Sprinting across the room to the private door Asha pulled on the handle and found it locked.

 _It's not supposed to be locked!_ she panicked. _Not unless the Emperor himself locks it, and he's been asleep all this time!_

It was a matter of heartbeats to pick the lock and ease herself inside. All was dark and quiet, but Asha felt uneasy. If what she dreaded had occurred, it would be dangerous to move around blindly in the dark. Casting a _Night Vision_ spell would allow her to see better in the darkened room, but there were too many places for something small and slithery to hide in, especially if they were agitated at being dumped unceremoniously out of a warm, safe box.

Making a slow, careful gesture, Asha cast a _Detect Life_ spell, and was relieved to see the form of the Emperor, in his bed asleep, light up with blue fire. Unfortunately, so did two smaller forms in the bed with him.

Asha felt her heart drop. The Emperor was quiet now, but if he rolled over in his sleep, he might never wake up. She couldn't paralyze the snakes; the Emperor was too close. Catching him in the spell would land her in prison with no questions asked. If she made a grab for one of the snakes, the other might become restless enough to become a more immediate threat.

A glimmer at the edge of her vision distracted her only for a moment. A rat poked its pointed nose out of a hole near the fireplace, sniffing the air and considering if going for the bait in the traps was worth it. It crept out cautiously, and Asha made a mental note to recommend to the footman to inform the Chamberlain about the hole.

Turning back to the Emperor, she was horrified to see one of the snakes creeping up and over his sleeping form.

 _Please don't move, Emperor,_ she prayed, _please don't move!_

The snake, which she could see clearly now, had come out from under the covers, and was raising its head up slightly, tasting the air with its forked tongue. It slid over the Emperor and lowered itself over the side of the bed. Asha shuddered inwardly. The reptile was at least two feet long. The other snake was on the move, now, probably alerted by its companion, and Asha held her breath, continuing to pray that the Emperor remained motionless. His breathing was unchanged, she noted. For that much, she was grateful.

The first snake was on the floor now, heading in her direction, swiftly and silently. Asha was terrified. She hated snakes. But she also realized the serpent was more interested in the rat behind her. If she moved, she would alert the rat and it would escape, so she remained where she was. The second snake had joined its partner, and the two headed under a pair of chairs in front of the fireplace and halted, lifting their heads and flicking their tongues.

A shifting behind her alerted Asha to the Emperor, who was attempting to rise.

"Your Majesty!" she called softly, in a low voice. "Please stay where you are. Do not move. You are still in danger!"

"Asha?"

"Trust me, your Majesty," she begged. "Stay in the bed. Don't…move!"

He subsided as Asha cast her _Detect Life_ spell again and found the snakes once more. They had moved closer to the rat, who still suspected nothing, and was pulling bits of cheese off the trap without setting it off. One of the snakes slithered against the wall, closer to the hole. Asha knew she couldn't let it escape. She threw her paralysis spell into the corner, catching all three creatures in it. They had no resistance, and froze in place.

"I've got them, your Majesty!" she announced, drawing her dagger and quickly dispatching the vermin.

"What's going on here?" demanded Titus Mede, firing off a _Magelight_ and letting it stick to the ceiling of his chamber. "I felt something slide across me and woke up!"

Asha brought the two dead reptiles over for closer inspection. "I saw someone leaving your chambers, sire," she replied. "I couldn't see who it was in the dark. I came to check on you and found these had been left here."

"And how do I know you didn't plant them yourself?" the Emperor demanded angrily.

"You don't," Asha acknowledged coolly. "But these are lesser taipans, and are usually only found in Elsweyr. They're very rare, and expensive to acquire. I could not afford them on a chambermaid's wages."

The emperor eyed her steadily. "You are no mere chambermaid, Asha. Councilor de Fer chose you for a reason. I'm no fool. And I think it's no coincidence that someone chose snakes to eliminate me. Oh yes, I know what a fer de lance is. I've been to High Rock."

Asha didn't pretend to misunderstand. "You believe someone seeks to discredit the Councilor, your Majesty?"

"I think I should have looked into your background more closely, young lady," he drawled. "For now, take those things out of here. And bring me a cup of tea with a splash of Colovian Brandy in it. I won't be able to sleep the rest of the night, now." In spite of the warmth of the room, the Emperor shuddered.

Several minutes later, the snakes and the rat having been disposed of, Asha brought the Emperor his cup of tea. He had put on his dressing gown and was seated by the fire.

"You're certain there are no more of those things about?" he asked her.

"Quite certain, sire," she replied. "I cast another spell while I waited for the water to boil."

Once more, Titus Mede studied her. "Why don't you tell me who you really are?" he prompted.

"I'd really rather not, sire," Asha said humbly, keeping her head down.

"I'm sure you wouldn't," he drawled. "But I like to know into whose hands I'm trusting my life. You work for the Councilor, do you not?"

"Yes, your Majesty."

"And you've known him for far longer than you've been here, at the Tower?"

Asha hesitated. "Yes, your Majesty," she finally answered.

"And Councilor de Fer is not merely an antiquities dealer, is he?"

"I don't know, sire."

"Oh, come now, girl!" the Emperor said, exasperated. "We'll get nowhere at this rate. You realize that it is within my power to throw you into the dungeons and say you attempted to kill me, don't you?"

Asha lifted her head, then and stared into the Emperor's rheumy eyes. Something clicked, and she felt more confident than she had moments ago. "But you won't, sire, will you?" she challenged softly. "You want information, and you would rather obtain it by persuasion than by force."

"Don't underestimate me, my dear," Titus Mede replied, just as quietly. "I may not choose to use force as a first option, but it's always on the table. Remember that."

Asha ducked her head again. "Yes, sire," she mumbled. Letting out a sigh, she capitulated. "I'll tell you what I _can_ tell you," she offered. "I ask that you trust me on the rest."

"Good," the Emperor smiled, sitting back and sipping his tea. "Let's start with who _you_ are, and we'll get to the rest in good time."

A commotion outside the Emperor's door saved Asha from speaking. Two of the Emperor's private guards, in Penitus Occulatus armor, threw the doors open and rushed in, swords drawn.

"Stand down!" the Emperor barked, in a surprisingly strong voice for a man his age. "I'm alright. You're both an hour late and a septim short," he snorted. "What's going on?"

"We caught three people struggling in the corridors," one of the guards replied, bowing with a fist across his chest.

"Bring them in," the Emperor ordered.

Asha's eyes widened as Beor and Drelan were dragged in, bound at the wrists, along with a third figure she did not know.

The Emperor stood slowly and glared at the three before him. "Well, Asha?" he invited softly. "Do you recognize anyone?"

Meeting Drelan's eyes, she saw the mer shake his head ever so slightly. Her brow furrowed in frustration and she glared back. Their cover had already been blown. Titus Mede knew more than he was letting on. Of that much, she was certain.

"The Nord and the Dunmer are with me," she stated, challenging Drelan to deny it. Beor's eyes widened in dismay and bewilderment. "I don't know who that other person is."

The 'other person' was a Khajiit. She was bruised and scraped, and her short, dark fur stuck out wildly in all directions where it wasn't covered by light armor. A snarl of pure hate curled her lip, and her ears were laid back.

"Interesting…" the Emperor murmured. "A Khajiit assassin. Oh, don't look so startled, cat girl. I recognize Renrijra Krin armor when I see it."

Asha looked closer at the Khajiit and realized the old man was correct. The unusual style of leather armor was seldom seen outside Elsweyr, but now that the Emperor had mentioned it, she remembered the head of their Leyawiin office, Jasper, mentioning that the Renrijra Krin were stirring up trouble in the south once more.

Two hundred years ago they had attempted to reclaim part of Elsweyr seceded to the Empire by the Mane, as part of a treaty agreement. The Renrijra Krin disagreed with the Mane's decision. A period of unrest and civil war followed, with County Leyawiin warring with County Bravil. Racial tensions ran high as the native Khajiit were pushed out of what they viewed as their own territory due to the influx of Imperial, Argonian and Dunmer settlers. Cut off from the rest of the Empire during the Oblivion Crisis, it wasn't until early in the Fourth Era, with the rise of the Mede Dynasty, that peace finally descended upon that part of Cyrodiil.

It appeared that the Renrijra Krin were flexing their muscles again. But why now? Titus Mede seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

"Now, why would the Renrijra Krin send an assassin against me?" he mused. "And one who uses snakes to do her dirty work for her, no less? I'm sure you thought the carnival would be blamed for this, my dear. And I'm sure whomever it was who put you up to this would be the first to make that suggestion." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter; you've failed." He glanced at one of the Penitus Occulatus. "Take her to the dungeon," he ordered. "See if Constantine can get any answers out of her."

"This one will not be taken captive!" the Khajiit hissed. There was a crunching sound from somewhere inside her mouth, and a bit of foam oozed from one corner. "It is…a fast…poison," she choked. "You…will…learn…noth—"

She slumped, caught by the two guards that flanked her. One felt for a pulse.

"Sire," he apologized, "she's dead. I'm sorry. We didn't know—"

"It's alright," Titus Mede said dismissively, waving his hand. "I expected as much. The Renrijra Krin often commit suicide rather than be taken prisoner. Take her out of here. Leave the other two with me."

"But sire—"

"I'll be fine, Captain," Mede said severely. "Send for Justinian," he added, referring to his Chamberlain. "Tell him to bring the red box."

If the request startled the Captain, he was too well-trained to show it. He bowed and left, assisting his partner in dragging the Khajiit's body from the chamber.

"Now," Titus Mede said smugly. "Why don't we all get comfortable? You aren't going to be going anywhere tonight, and I'm sure you know many things you're going to tell me."

Drelan and Beor glared at Asha, who merely shrugged helplessly. It was out of her hands, now.

Ten minutes later, the Chamberlain entered Titus Mede's private chamber, carrying a large box covered in tooled red leather. He looked disheveled, as if wakened from a deep sleep. His dressing gown had been thrown quickly over his nightshirt, and his feet were bare inside fur-lined slippers of satin and leather. His nightcap was perched precariously on his tousled white hair, and the pince-nez at the end of his nose threatened to fall off.

"I came as soon as I could, Your Majesty," the Chamberlain, Justinian, gasped. Though the box did not appear to be heavy, the older Imperial was breathing as if he'd just run a dozen city blocks.

"You took your time," the Emperor scowled, though there was a twinkle in his pale grey eyes. "Set the box there, on the table next to me," he ordered, and his Chamberlain complied. Asha shifted to allow him to sit on the settee, and Justinian frowned.

"Why is the chambermaid here?" he demanded. "And who are these two?" He glared at Beor. "You! I recognize you. You're the new stable hand! Why are you here?" He turned to the Emperor. "What's going on, Sire?" he protested.

"Sit down and be quiet, Justinian," Titus Mede said tiredly. "It would seem I owe these three my life. Or rather, I owe Councilor de Fer… _again._ Now, you three: I want you to tell the Chamberlain here what you've told me. And this doesn't leave this room, Justinian, understand?"

"No, Sire, I don't," Justinian lamented, "but you may rely on my discretion."

The Emperor chuckled. "I always have, old friend." He turned to Asha. "Go ahead, my dear," he encouraged.

Asha hesitated, looking at Beor and Drelan. The young Nord shrugged, and Drelan rolled his eyes.

"You've already blown our cover this much, Asha," he said sourly. "You might as well go for broke."

"It's not like I had any choice," she remonstrated. Sighing, she turned to the Chamberlain.

"Councilor de Fer hired the three of us to protect the Emperor while he was away on the Emperor's business," she explained. "He suspected that enemies of His Majesty might make an attempt on his life and succeed where they had failed before, with Amaund Motierre."

"Motierre was acting alone," the Chamberlain objected.

"No, my lord," Drelan interjected. "He wasn't. Motierre was in the employ of the Aldmeri Dominion."

"Preposterous!" Justinian exclaimed. "I never heard a word about this!"

"I kept the information from you, old friend," Titus Mede said. "You still have to deal with Dominion representatives every day in court. If you had known that Motierre's attempt had Thalmor backing, what would you have done?"

The Chamberlain blew out a breath. "Why I'd…I…I don't know what I would have done, sire," he finished. "But it would certainly have made it difficult for me to be diplomatic in dealing with them on a daily basis."

"Precisely why I didn't tell you," the Emperor drawled. "You're a good man, Justinian, and one of my oldest and dearest friends. But you are also a bit _too_ bound by honor. You would have gone to the Thalmor Ambassador and _demanded_ an accounting, which they would have denied, which would have sparked the diplomatic incident the Dominion is waiting for to start the next war."

Chamberlain Justinian slumped. "You know me far too well, sire," he admitted with a deep sigh. "I never was good at subterfuge. You were right to keep this from me."

"I know," the Emperor said smugly. "Now, give me the key for the box."

The Chamberlain handed it over from a silken cord around his neck. Titus Mede opened the box and drew out a small, miniature portrait. He looked at it for a long moment before passing it over to Asha.

"Show it to the others," he instructed.

Asha looked at the image. It was of a beautiful, smiling young girl with dark hair and gray eyes, exactly like the Emperor's. She said nothing, but passed the portrait to Drelan, whose own eyes widened when he looked at the girl. He too said nothing, but handed it to Beor.

"Shor's bones!" the young Nord blurted. "She looks just like the Boss!"

Asha cringed inwardly. _Shut up, shut up, shut up!_ she begged silently.

"The 'Boss'?" Justinian frowned.

Beor compressed his lips, discretion remembered far too late, and handed the portrait back to Asha, who gave it back to the Emperor.

"That, young man, was my daughter," Titus Mede announced, with an ineffable note of sadness in his voice. "The Princess Lucinda."

Asha exchanged glances with Drelan and Beor, but the Emperor seemed not to notice as he continued to speak.

"About thirty years ago, a young nobleman from High Rock came to my court. His name was Lord Edwyn Greyshadow, and his family were prominent members of the court of the King in Wayrest. Lord Edwyn came to Cyrodiil to finalize trade agreements between our two Provinces. He was charming and intelligent…and married…but had left his wife and young sons at home. My daughter, Lucinda, was completely smitten by his manner, though I warned her to stay away from him." Titus Mede sighed. "She was always very headstrong."

He was silent for several moments, deep in thought, before continuing.

"I never caught the two of them together," the Emperor said, "but I was certain they were seeing each other in secret. Servants' tongues wag, you see. I finalized our business as quickly as I could and sent him home as diplomatically as possible. Lucinda was furious with me, but I thought that as soon as he was out of sight, she would soon forget him. I even went so far as to inquire about other eligible prospects for her. She would have none of them."

He sighed again. "One morning, I woke up and went to the morning room we shared to take breakfast with her. She didn't come down. I sent a servant after her, who came back with this note." He held up a piece of parchment, but did not offer it to them. "Lucinda had run away. She claimed that she wanted to start a new life some other place, but I was certain she'd gone to High Rock. I sent inquiries there, to House Greyshadow, but she never arrived. My daughter – my only child – had disappeared off the face of Nirn."

Asha felt her heart go out to the old man. She had never had children herself – had never wanted any – but knew that to humans, the connection of parent to child was a bond that went deeper than any material possession. Humans only lived for a fraction of the time a mer might live; children were their only hope of immortality.

"About a year after Lucinda disappeared," Titus Mede continued sadly, "I received another letter. It was from her nurse, who had run off with her." He held up the second letter from the box, but again, did not offer it to the others. "The nurse said she had died of a fever that apparently had no cure. And she returned Lucinda's ring, so I would know she spoke the truth." He held up the ring. "And for a long time, I believed what I had been told."

Now he pierced the three rogues in the room with his gaze. "Until the day your 'Boss' walked into my court and accused Amaund Motierre of conspiring to assassinate me. I knew those eyes, the set of that jawline, the arch of the eyebrows. I knew them all because I had seen them before. But I didn't know if _he_ was aware, so I said nothing. And I will continue to say nothing – as will the four of you – until I speak to him upon his return. I will get to the bottom of this mystery of 'Lance de Fer,' and find out who he really is. Until then, the three of you will go on as you have done. Maintain your charade; pretend to be who everyone thinks you are, until your 'Boss' gets back. The fewer people who know of this, the better. Is that clearly understood?"

Four heads nodded assent.

"Good," the Emperor yawned. "Justinian, you may put the box away. I may call for it again, soon. The rest of you are dismissed. I'm going back to bed. Oh…and 'Lord Drelan', if that's who you are…?"

"Yes, sire?"

"In the morning I'd like to discuss your connections with Morrowind. If you truly have any influence there, I may be able to work that to my advantage."

Drelan gave a weak smile. "I look forward to it, sire," he replied, in a tone that clearly indicated he'd rather be anyplace else.

The Emperor merely chuckled.

* * *

Dante Greyshadow woke up before dawn and packed up his few belongings into his travel cases. Deciding to continue wearing the Nightingale armor, he threw an embroidered surcoat over it and tucked the hood through the belt that held his blade before heading downstairs. The Housecarl Gregor, he knew, would make sure his bags were loaded onto the carriage to take him back to Whiterun. He smiled as Mehrunes' Razor thumped reassuringly against his thigh.

Halfway down the stairs he paused, sniffing the air. A most enticing aroma drifted through the hall from the kitchen. Following his nose, he found the Dragonborn seated at a small table in one corner of the private dining room behind the Great Hall. The younger Imperial was reading a sheaf of papers that had been delivered to Heljarchen during their absence. The delicious aroma seemed to emanate from a clay pitcher sitting on the table. Marcus was sipping from a cup as he read.

"Greyshadow," Marcus greeted the Breton man, looking up from his documents. "Sleep well?"

"Very well, actually," Dante admitted. "What is that wonderful smell?"

Marcus chuckled, gesturing the older man to sit down. "Guildmaster, let me be the first to introduce you to coffee…or _kaffre,_ as the Khajiit call it." He poured a steaming cup of the brew and handed it to the Breton rogue. "It's a strong beverage, brewed from a mountain bean in Elsweyr. I used to drink something similar when I was younger. Trust me, there's nothing better to wake you up and get you going in the morning."

Dante took a tentative sip. It was very strong, and he blinked at its bitter, but not unpleasant taste.

Again, the Dragonborn chuckled. "Tamsyn usually adds a bit of milk and moon sugar to hers," he said, gesturing to the smaller pitcher and bowl next to the large clay carafe which held the _kaffre,_ indicating that Dante should help himself if he so desired. "I tend to take mine black."

"I think I could get used to this," Dante smiled. "It's actually quite good. So, what is that you're reading?"

"Reports from Bthardamz," Marcus said. "I was just going over Madanach's assessment of our troops in training there."

"Where, exactly, is Bthardamz?" Dante asked as he took another sip of _kaffre,_ or 'coffee', as the Dragonborn had called it. He made a mental note to get in touch with his Khajiit contacts to lay in a store of the brew for himself.

"In the far northwestern part of the Reach," Marcus explained. "Close to where it borders with Haafingar and High Rock."

"And who is Madanach?" Dante inquired.

Marcus took a sip of his drink before replying. "He's sometimes known as the 'Reach King,'" he replied.

"Ah!" Dante nodded. "I know who you're talking about now. Isn't Bthardamz a Dwemer ruin, though?"

"It is," Marcus conceded, "but the Reachfolk have taken it over and are using it as a place to train battlemages away from the prying eyes of the Dominion."

"I still think you're being incredibly naïve if you think the Dominion doesn't already know what you're up to," Dante said severely.

"Maybe I am," Marcus shrugged. "But if that was the case, why haven't they moved against us?"

"Who knows why the Thalmor do what they do?" Dante sighed. "But if I were you, I'd be taking a hard, critical look at my defenses and seeing if there are weaknesses that could be exploited. Who's to say you don't already have Thalmor operatives amongst your numbers?"

"In point of fact, I don't know that for certain," the Dragonborn admitted. "All I can do is trust in the people we've put in charge, that they know what they're doing. I'm sure there are times you have to do the same."

Dante nodded. "True," he agreed, "but I always have a back-up plan. Sometimes two or three. I try never to leave anything to chance."

"Well, take a look at these reports," Marcus invited. "I think you'll agree that Madanach would probably agree with you. He doesn't leave things to chance, either."

Dante read through several pages, and had to agree the Dragonborn was correct. Madanach's people regularly patrolled not just their area around Bthardamz, but all over the Reach, from the Haafingar border down to Hammerfell, from the Dragontail Mountains to Whiterun and Falkreath Holds. There appeared to be little going on the Reach of which Madanach was unaware. There was even a report about their visit with Matriarch Drascua. He pointed it out to Marcus.

"How could Madanach have heard of that?" Dante frowned. "That was only a few days ago. We've only just come back from the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon."

"I don't know exactly how," Marcus admitted, "but Madanach and his people are able to tap into the old magicks. They have ways of divining things that make even Tamsyn turn green with envy. In point of fact, only Madanach has one of the ear-buds, to stay in touch with the rest of the Alliance. The rest of his people seem not to need them."

"That's more than a bit unnerving, I have to admit," Dante grimaced. "If I were a Thalmor, I'd be taking a closer look at the Reachfolk."

"From Madanach's reports, some have tried," Marcus said. "The Dominion has lost at least six Justiciar patrols in the last year to 'Forsworn' attacks in the Reach. Jarl Esmerelda wrings her hands and apologizes, but insists there's little she can do, as they tend to melt back into the hills."

"And the Dominion hasn't gone after their settlements?" Dante inquired.

"They can't," Marcus shrugged. "Not really. Anything larger than a Justiciar patrol would be considered an invasion force. The Dominion knows that, and they aren't ready to trigger the next war just yet. Madanach knows it's just a matter of time before all Oblivion breaks loose and the Thalmor throw caution to the winds, and come down on their redoubts in force. To that end, they've withdrawn most of their people – the very old, the very young and the invalids – to highly secretive camps so far back into the mountains you could wander around there for years and never find them."

"Perhaps," Dante said doubtfully. "Call me a cynic, but I just don't trust the Thalmor. I'm convinced, from the intelligence my people have been able to gather so far, that they are far more ready to move against the Empire than you think. It might not happen this year, or next, but it will happen soon. We all have a stake in this, Dragonborn. We all have something to lose. We must be ready when it comes."

"I know," Marcus sighed. "I'll have to work harder at getting the dragons on our side. The Dominion won't be expecting that."

"Again, don't be too sure of that," Dante cautioned. "The Thalmor know there is a Dragonborn, now. They know you've defeated Alduin. They don't know what you're capable of, and they don't like not knowing things. The Dominion hasn't existed this long, or advanced as far as they have, without coming up with contingency plans to deal with people and things they don't understand."

"What do you suggest I do, then?" Marcus demanded, irritated. He didn't like being made to feel like a raw recruit, but the Guildmaster's words made him doubt his own progress.

"First of all, I'd feel a lot better if I knew the Dominion was unaware of your secret training bases. I'll see if I can infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy in Cyrodiil, and have some of my best operatives liberate any intelligence from the Embassies in High Rock and Hammerfell. I know you were planning on going to High Rock, and that's fine. Just keep a low profile while my people do their jobs. The information I've…ahem… _acquired_ from the Ayleid bases in Cyrodiil may only be the start of something bigger."

"Sounds like it will take some time," Marcus rumbled. "The report out of High Rock suggests that Thalmor interference in the court there could succeed in breaking that Province away from the Empire."

Dante shrugged. "I'm sorry to say my people don't need Thalmor interference to find an excuse for civil war. We have a long history of political intrigue and in-fighting. But if we're too busy bickering amongst ourselves, we wouldn't be able to assist the Empire when push comes to shove. So yes, go to High Rock and see if you can smooth things over. And in the meantime, my colleagues and I will see what we can find out."

"Where will you be?" Marcus asked.

"As I told your dear lady, Hammerfell," the Breton Guildmaster replied. "I don't have as many contacts there as I would like, but I may have an 'in,' now," he continued, thinking of Saadia. "I want to find out how set they are against the Dominion, and what it might take to bring them back into the Imperial fold."

"Don't promise them anything I can't deliver," Marcus chuckled wryly.

"My dear Dragonborn," Dante said archly, "you are not the only iron in the fire. I have connections to the Emperor himself, don't forget."

"I haven't forgotten," Marcus assured him. "But I know the Emperor is engaged in his own tango with Thalmor, and he'll need to proceed with caution."

"'Tango'?"

Marcus opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head dismissively. "Never mind. It's a form of dance. Suffice to say that I know the Emperor can't openly acknowledge what we're attempting to do behind the scenes. Discretion is our strongest tool right now."

"You're not from Cyrodiil, are you, Dragonborn?" the Grey Fox declared suddenly.

Marcus shook his head. "I never said I was," was his only reply, as he sipped his _kaffre_.

"Where _are_ you from, then?" Dante demanded. "I like to know who I'm working with. Perhaps the only thing I have in common with the Thalmor is that I don't like not knowing things."

"Get used to disappointment," Marcus chuckled, and Dante scowled, knowing he wouldn't be learning any more about the Dragonborn this morning.

He might have pressed the issue, but Tamsyn joined them for breakfast as Lydia bustled in with trenchers of crisped bacon and platters of eggs that had been gently fried so that the yolks were still soft. Deciding to shelve the mystery of the origins of the Dragonborn for now, Dante tucked into his food.

After breakfast, Tamsyn saw them to the door. The Dragonborn, Dante learned, was also leaving for High Rock this day.

"Sooner rather than later, you know," the young Imperial shrugged. "I'd like to see if I can settle things there and get back before the baby comes." He laid a loving hand on Tamsyn' swollen abdomen, and she placed her own over it. A delighted smile crossed the Dragonborn's face as he felt their baby kick in response.

"I'll head out to Markarth and wait for you there," Tamsyn said. "Argis will be there if I need him, and I'd like Bothela to help me with the birth."

"Sounds like a plan," Marcus nodded. "I'll stay in touch." He tapped the ear bud and gathered her in as close as his dragonplate armor and her distended belly would let him. "I love you," he whispered in her ear, then kissed her tenderly on the mouth. "Take care of yourself, and keep our baby safe."

"You know I will," she replied, her eyes shining with love. "I'll see you in Markarth when you get back."

Marcus mounted Storm after checking the pack and bags strapped to the saddle.

"You're not riding in the carriage, then?" Dante asked.

"Nope," the Dragonborn replied, shaking his head. "We're heading in opposite directions, and you've got more stuff than I have."

"I'm sending my trunks back to the Imperial City once I get to Whiterun," Dante explained. "But I'll be taking Nightshade with me to Hammerfell. Thank you again for the gift of him. He's a fine animal." He looked back admiringly at the black stallion tied to the back of the carriage.

"He'll get more exercise with you than he would have with me," Marcus acknowledge. "And he's not a horse that likes to sit around and cool his heels. He has a lot of high energy."

"I'm sure I'll appreciate that as we cross the Alik'r Desert," Dante agreed. The two men clasped wrists before Marcus turned Storm's head westward and rode off, leaving Dante with Gregor to rumble south towards Whiterun.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Next up, Marcus sets out to discover what the Thalmor have been up to in High Rock, and gets help from an unexpected source.]_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 _[Author's Note: I'm going to preface this Chapter by stating for the record that I have not played Elder Scrolls Online, or have any other knowledge or information of either High Rock or Hammerfell beyond what is written in the lore. So, if I depart from what you know by playing ESO or an earlier TES game, you'll have to forgive my ignorance and creativity. Thank you.]_

* * *

Marcus looked at the note in his hand, peering through the gathering gloom. _"Tenth house, Washer Way, Wayrest."_

"I can't even be sure she's still there," Dante Greyshadow had told him when he gave him the parchment, "but if you could take a look and find out if Nonna – I mean, Clarice – is still there, I'd take it as a personal kindness."

"Of course," Marcus had assured him. "I've never been to High Rock, but I'm sure I can find my way around."

"If you're going through the Pass in the Druadach Mountains," the Guildmaster went on, "your best bet is to make your way to the Bjoulsae River, and see if you can't persuade a boatman to take you downriver to Wayrest. Some won't go beyond the border between the Holds of Evermoor and Wayrest, but you never know; you might get lucky. The city of Wayrest sits right on the confluence of the river with the Iliac Bay. You can't miss it."

"I'll find it," Marcus nodded. "Any idea what to expect when I get there?"

Dante shrugged. "I've been away too long," he admitted. "Clarice – if she's still there – can probably give you a better idea. My contacts in that area have reported the usual political unrest. I'm told some of the major Houses have shifted locations, as well as loyalties."

"Shifted locations?"

Again, the older man shrugged. "It's a new generation over there now. _My_ generation grown up and in charge, and I don't know all the players. There have been intermarriages between Houses, as well as coups, like the one that dispossessed me. Some families, like mine, have been almost completely wiped out, and other Houses have moved in and taken over. I'd watch my step over there, if I were you."

"I'll be careful," Marcus promised.

It was an easy enough promise to make then, but now, as the boatman poled his way just off shore, letting the flow of the Bjoulsae River carry them towards Wayrest, Marcus wondered if it would be just as easy to keep. The owner of the boat was a surly, disagreeable Breton who charged what the Dragonborn felt was an inordinate amount of gold for the privilege of carrying him downriver. Marcus kept watch on the shoreline, alert to any possible sign of betrayal. His barely whispered _thu'um_ , inaudible to his nautical associate, illuminated several faunae in the immediate area, but thankfully nothing bipedal or humanoid.

When they came within sight of the city, Marcus asked to be put ashore while they were still a mile or two out.

"Still the same price," grumbled the ill-tempered boatman, who insisted on the balance of the agreed-upon fare without a discount. Marcus handed over the gold without a word, but privately hoped the man's skiff would spring a leak on his way back.

The huge, stone city walls rose to greet him, the portcullis already lowered for the evening as Marcus approached. He settled himself down in a cleared area, near a scattering of other tents pitched nearby; other travelers camped for the night, close to the city, having arrived too late to enter until morning. This was a lesser gate, he knew, and it was by intent that he decided to enter Wayrest in this manner. A modest man, by most standards, he was well aware his fame as Dragonborn was spreading. Just the fact that Emperor Titus Mede the Second himself had chosen to write to him and make an offer of adoption, of all things, spoke volumes. Marcus had no illusions about that: an alliance of the Mede line to him, as Dragonborn, would solidify Mede's claim on the highest position in the Empire, as well as secure the succession for his line.

His thoughts wandered, not for the first time, to Octavian, the young Imperial whose soul he'd met in Sovngarde, and who had originally been the man sitting in the cart that morning on the way to Helgen and execution. Akatosh had told him Octavian had died of his injuries, thus providing the Chief of the Nine Divines the opportunity to use the body as a receptacle for Marcus' soul to return to Tamriel where it belonged, had Alduin not drop-kicked him into Gaea. But why had Octavian been on the cart in the first place? It was a question he hadn't felt right about asking the young man when they met in Sovngarde. Octavian assured him he had no remaining family. But where had he come from? And had Octavian actually been Dragonborn? Or did that blessing come from his own soul?

In all the lore Marcus had voraciously devoured, in book after book since he'd come to Skyrim a little over two years ago, the only information he could find about being Dragonborn was that it involved having the body of a mortal, but the blood and soul of a dragon. Well, he hadn't been born here; only his soul had returned when he died in Gaea. So how could he have transferred his dragon blood into a new receptacle, unless that body already had it to begin with? The gift was generally assumed to run in the Septim line, but the blessing of whether or not one _was_ Dragonborn was also said to be the decision of Akatosh alone. And if his research was any indication, there hadn't been very many Dragonborn in the past. Which implied there could have been generations of Septims, sitting on the Ruby Throne, who were not Dragonborn, but simply ordinary men and women doing a difficult, thankless job, with no other special powers to assist them.

 _That's not entirely true, Marcus,_ a calm, quiet voice said inside his head, and his heart thrilled a little to hear his mentor speak to him. _Those to whom I gave the blessing of Dragonborn always had the power. That they chose not to use it was entirely up to them. Their blood, a conjoining of mine with Alessia's, was proof against the Daedra invading Tamriel, as long as they held the Amulet of Kings, and kept the Dragonfires lit._

"Until the Oblivion Crisis, right?" Marcus asked quietly, out of earshot of any eavesdroppers.

 _Correct,_ Akatosh confirmed. _The minions and followers of Mehrunes Dagon had worked tirelessly to eliminate the Septim line, knowing that only then would they be able to allow their lord to enter Mundus unopposed. Without a Septim on the Ruby Throne, without the Dragonfires guarding the barrier between worlds, there was nothing to stop any of the Daedra from invading. Dagon was just more ambitious about it than his brethren._

"Why did you allow that to happen?" Marcus asked. "I mean, you're a god, aren't you?" A year ago, still in awe of his patron, he would never have dared to voice such a question. "Couldn't you have told one of your priests what was happening, so they could stop it?"

There was a long-suffering sigh. _It doesn't quite work that way, Marcus,_ the Aedra explained patiently. _When we created Nirn, we gave up a part of ourselves. In doing so, we agreed to an unspoken covenant that we would never directly interfere in the affairs of mortals. We cannot manifest physically in Mundus. And while I could have spoken to any of my priests, even young Martin Septim himself, I did not._

"Why?"

 _I am the God of Time, Marcus,_ Akatosh said. _I could see beyond the moment. If I had alerted my priests, if they had attempted to stop the Mythic Dawn from assassinating the Septim line, it would have driven Dagon's followers deeper underground. They would have waited to strike until a later, less favorable time. The one person who could stop them permanently was not simply Martin Septim himself, but a young mage, unjustly thrown into prison, who unknowingly carried the dragon blood in her veins._

"Her?!" Marcus blurted, a bit louder than he intended. He glanced furtively at the other merchants camped nearby, but they did not appear to have heard him. "Her?"he asked again, more quietly. "I thought the Hero of Kvatch, the Savior of Bruma, was a man?"

Akatosh chuckled. _Many thought the same. She disguised herself, in order to confuse anyone who might have tried to kill her. She wore a closed helm and heavy armor, and wielded a greatsword she enchanted herself, but she excelled at magic. She became a Blade, and helped keep Martin Septim safe until the moment of his sacrifice. Very few even knew her name. I knew she would succeed, but if I had allowed my priests to carry out a vendetta against the Mythic Dawn, they would have waited until the Hero had been executed, or died of old age in prison, before carrying out their ultimate plan._

"What happened to her after the Crisis was over?" Marcus asked. "The books don't say very much at all about her – except that they assumed she was a man."

 _She retired,_ Akatosh replied. _The cost of entering each of the Oblivion gates to shut them down, coupled with losing Martin Septim, haunted her the rest of her days. She left the Imperial City to raise her daughter alone in Chorral._

"Wait… _daughter?"_ Marcus spluttered. "Are you suggesting she and Martin—"

 _Yes,_ Akatosh cut in, clearly amused at the Dragonborn's shock. _And they had a daughter, who never knew her father. Though she certainly knew of Martin and his sacrifice – all of Cyrodiil did – she never learned he was her father. It was a secret her mother carried to her grave._

"So, there might be other heirs to the Septim line out there," Marcus mused.

 _Closer than you might think, Dragonborn,_ Akatosh chuckled. _Where do you think Octavian came from? Or the Greyshadow line?_

He didn't realize his mouth had gaped open until he closed it. "So…you're saying…Greyshadow and I are…related?" His mind spun with the revelation.

 _Think of yourselves as distant cousins, if it helps,_ his mentor suggested lightly. _Very…distant…cousins._ There was a sudden absence of the Presence in his mind, and Marcus knew he was alone once more. But his mind whirled with this new information. It was a long time before he could settle himself down to sleep again.

He awoke the next morning just as the sun was coming up, and broke his fast with some of the dried meat and fruits he'd brought with him. Washing it down with some weak mead, wishing he had some coffee, Marcus packed up his few belongings and went to stand at the postern gate with the other merchants, waiting for it to open.

Once inside, he took a look around the city of Wayrest. The district he was in was clearly not affluent. Most of the buildings looked run-down, made of stone and timber at their bases, with second floors of timber and stucco. They looked almost Tudor in design, though the Tudor Kings never ruled here. Turrets and towers abounded here, and several larger, important-looking buildings that he could see in the distance were constructed completely of stone, though they still maintained the appearance of timber-reinforced corners and doorways.

The harbor was not far away, and over the tops of some of the smaller buildings, he could see ship masts bobbing gently at their berths. The streets were narrow and cobbled, though there appeared to be a larger, central well to which women of all ages were already gathering with their baskets of laundry.

"State your business in Wayrest, stranger."

Marcus blinked and redirected his attention to the guard at the gate. Like the other guards patrolling the streets, he was garbed in splinted mail over chain, with the crest of Wayrest emblazoned on both his shield and his tabard. He carried a long pike, at least ten feet in length, that towered over his pointed helmet and ended in a dangerously sharp-looking blade.

"I'm a simple traveler," Marcus smiled, throwing everything he had into his natural ability to calm, reassure, and instill confidence in others. Tamsyn had called it the "Voice of the Emperor", as it was known in the video game she had played hundreds of hours of in their old world, and it appeared to be a common ability of most Imperials. "I'm just here looking for an old friend. She lives in Washer Way."

Behind his closed helm, the guard blinked a moment, then seemed to relax. "Washer Way is over there," the guard pointed. "Just don't cause any trouble while you're here."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Marcus smiled. "Thanks." He headed off towards Washer Way. The crooked street twisted its way downhill, past shabby buildings of stone and wood. The docks were even closer here, and Marcus could smell the tang of salt in the air, combined with the stench of offal from the livestock being loaded and unloaded off the ships in the harbor. Gulls screeched overhead, and the wind scattered dry leaves and debris ahead of it down the narrow alley.

The buildings here must once have been fine lodgings, but were now drab and colorless. Foundations were settling in the softer, sandier soil, and the thatching on the roofs looked old and shabby – at least, where there was thatching at all. It was a far cry from the tales of the beautiful architecture he'd heard High Rock was famous for, the evidence of which he had seen in the distance from the gate, but it was clear this was an older section of the city that was long past its glory days. It had been a deliberate choice on his part to enter the city this way; the fewer people who knew the Dragonborn had come to High Rock, the better. To that end, he had even eschewed wearing his trademark dragonplate armor, and was only wearing standard steel, such as any mercenary would wear. He had even left Alduin's Bane at home, though he still carried Dragonbane.

It took some time, and some questioning of the locals, before he found what was considered the "Tenth House" on Washer Way. Like the others around it, it was in need of some repair, though it seemed some effort had been made in regards to its upkeep. Though the fence surrounding the small side and back yard looked rotted and crumbling, the garden beyond was neat and orderly, and growing quite profusely. Shutters were hanging slightly askew, to the point of almost falling off, but the windows were clean, and he could see curtains hanging inside. The paint on the door was peeling, but the stoop was neatly swept, and there was no trash or debris cluttering the front area. The thatch was old, and smelled faintly of mildew, but it was mainly intact.

He stepped up to the door and knocked, not brusquely or peremptorily, but as politely as his steel gauntlets would allow.

There was a shuffling noise inside. "Who calls?" came a faint voice from the other side.

"My name is Marcus of Whiterun," the Dragonborn answered, hopefully loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to turn heads on the street. A glance up and down determined there was no one close enough to care. People were going on about their business.

The curtain at the window fluttered, as if someone had been looking out. "I don't know you," the woman's voice said. "What do you want?"

"I need to speak to you," Marcus called, as persuasively as he could. "Could you open the door?"

There was a sound suspiciously like a snort on the other side. "You take me for a fool, do you?" the woman retorted. "I don't open the door to people I don't know. Go away!"

Marcus heaved a sigh of exasperation. He had no idea what the situation was here in High Rock. The Guildmaster had cautioned him against alerting people to his presence – or worse, alerting the wrong people to Clarice's presence.

"She was a member of my father's household, at least for a few years," he'd told Marcus. "There might still be people there who would harm her if they knew."

 _Damn you, Greyshadow!_ he thought now. _How am I supposed to talk to her through a wooden door without arousing suspicion?_

"Please," he called once more. "I need to speak with you. I'm looking for someone who once went by the nickname of Nonna." It was a fairly innocuous name, he felt. Many old women, especially grandmothers or wet-nurses, were called "Nonna."

There was a lumbering, scraping sound, as of something being drawn against the door, and it opened only about the width of a handspan. A sturdy chain was drawn taut across the opening. A face he recognized from Drascua's pensieve – though older now, and with more lines and whiter hair – peered out at him. She took in his face and figure, standing there on her doorstep, before seeming to deflate. Reading her body language gave Marcus hope. She appeared to have hoped he might have been someone else, but had been disappointed.

"Who sent you?" she glared at him now, as if not being the person she had been waiting for was somehow his fault.

"I don't think that's a wise thing to announce out here in public," Marcus smiled. "May I come in?"

"Hmph," the old woman snorted again. "You've got _some_ sense, it appears." She looked him over again and seemed to come to a decision. "Give me a moment," she sighed, and closed the door. A heavy chain rattled once more, and something heavy was dragged across a wooden floor. Marcus thought back with some amusement to his first encounter with Esbern, Blades archivist, who had been hiding out in the Ratway beneath Riften. No less than five sturdy locks had been on that man's iron door, keeping him safe from Thalmor intrusion.

The door swung open only wide enough to allow him to slip inside, whereupon the old woman closed it again tightly. She slipped the chain back into its rack and lugged a heavy, glowing stone back to its position against the door. Even his dull senses could feel the magic radiating from the stone. The scrapes on the neatly scrubbed floor told him how often she had secured the door in this manner.

The woman standing before him was a Breton, as he had seen in the vision, though older now, and thinner. Her hair, which had still been dark in the image conjured in the pensieve, was almost completely white now, and careworn lines were etched in her face. Her eyes were still bright, however, as she regarded him with a heavy dose of suspicion. She leaned heavily on the staff she carried for support, as she glared at Marcus.

"Now," said the matriarch firmly, in a tone that brooked no argument, "I want you to tell me exactly who you are and who sent you here, and why you're looking for Nonna."

"But you're Nonna," Marcus blurted, before he could stop himself. "You're Clarice. I know you—"

 _CRACK!_

Marcus' head reeled, and for a moment, bright spots floated in his vision. The staff had lashed out so quickly he hadn't seen it coming. His head throbbed, and he was sure there was a welt now that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"Owww…" he muttered, through the ringing in his ears.

" _Where did you hear that name?"_ she hissed, staff clenched in both hands, defensively. "No one here calls me by that! _WHO ARE YOU?"_

"I told you," he mumbled, shaking his head to ease the ringing. He immediately regretted that, as the throbbing intensified. "I'm Marcus of Whiterun, and I came looking for a woman named—" He paused, as she raised the staff threateningly. "Look," he snapped, exasperated, "I'm not going to hurt you. Dante Greyshadow asked me to— _OWWW!"_

In retrospect, Marcus had to admire how quickly she moved for a woman of her advanced years, and how effectively she wielded her staff. Like a striking snake, he couldn't anticipate where or when it might lash out, and he was hindered by the reluctance to hurt her. Greyshadow would not have thanked him for that. Once more, he cursed the Breton Guildmaster under his breath.

Though she never raised her voice, Clarice made it clear she suspected his motives to be anything but benevolent.

"You _lie!"_ she snarled again, emphasizing each word with a jab and a slash of the staff. "House Greyshadow was wiped out! I was _there!_ I _saw_ what the Montroses did! My young master _died._ If not that night, then soon after!"

Suddenly Marcus understood the flaw in Dante's plan. By not contacting Clarice in the past twenty or so years, she had been led to assume he was dead. In her eyes, he was an enemy asking too many questions; in her hands, the staff was a deadly weapon, and while she clearly wasn't attempting to kill him, he had no doubt she could, if she felt threatened enough.

"He's not dead!" he protested now, desperate to stop the brutalizing he was taking. "He knew I was coming here – _OOF!_ – and asked me to see if you were still here!" His hands were taking a beating, fending off her blows, and he was grateful for the steel gauntlets that protected them.

" _LIAR!"_ Clarice hissed. "If he was still alive, then why hasn't he written in all these years? Why hasn't he sent for me?" Under the anger, Marcus sensed the hurt and betrayal she must have felt. This was a man she had raised from infancy; she was the only mother-figure he had ever known, and he had abandoned her. But how could he have contacted her, if the situation in High Rock was as tenuous as it seemed to be? He said as much now.

"He could have found a way," Clarice insisted, lowering her staff, and Marcus had to admit she was right. Had he been in the Guildmaster's place, _he_ would have. But being a thief, and leader of thieves, might not sit very well with the old woman, Marcus realized. Perhaps the Grey Fox even felt a sense of shame for what he had become. He certainly hadn't been raised that way.

"I don't know all the details," Marcus said now, though he felt he knew more than most. He was also thankful she had stopped hitting him. "All I know is that he's asked me to come to you now, to see if you're alright." Privately he acknowledged a healthy respect for a woman of her age who could defend herself as well as she had with nothing but a quarterstaff. He also began to feel a bit of sympathy for the Guild Master, and how he had been raised. Few would have dared cross this old nurse!

"Does it look like I'm alright?" the matriarch grumbled. "Living like this? In this neighborhood? Hardly daring to leave my house in case one of the Montroses recognizes me? They know _I_ know what happened that night."

"Then why stay?" Marcus asked, reasonably. "Why not leave?"

"And go where?" Clarice demanded. "You're not thinking very clearly, Marcus of Whiterun, or whoever you are. I'm still not convinced you aren't a spy of the Montroses." She hefted the staff again, and Marcus flinched. "How do I know you won't take me outside the city, murder me, and dump my body down a hole where it will never be found?" She raised her staff again.

"I promise you," the Dragonborn said hastily, raising his hands, "I'm not a spy." _At least, not for the Montroses,_ he thought. "I'm doing this as a favor for Greyshadow because I happened to have been coming to High Rock anyway."

"Well, you picked a lousy time to come here, then," Clarice grumbled, lowering the staff. "You'd better sit down while I fix us a cup of tea, and you can tell me how you met my young master."

While the old woman busied herself with the kettle, Marcus looked around the small, but tidy cottage. There was only one room, with a door at the back, heavily barred, that seemed to lead out to her garden area. A ladder against the wall furthest from her hearth led up to a loft area where he assumed she slept at night. The stone floor was cracked in a few places, but was clean, and a bright rug of woven fibers covered it in the center of the room. A small table with two chairs was set closer to the hearth, and was covered with an elaborately embroidered cloth to protect the ancient wood underneath. Against the back wall, between the ladder and the door, was a large weaving loom with an unfinished blanket being worked upon it. Near the front door was a basket containing an assortment of clothing, both men's and women's, all obviously needing repair, and Marcus understood how the old woman had managed to survive here as long as she had.

"You're a seamstress," he observed, as she brought the kettle to the table and set it on a cast-iron trivet. "And a weaver, too, it looks like."

"Aye," she agreed, not bothering to deny it. "I used to be a washerwoman, too, in my youth, but I'm too old for that now. It's never paid much, but it's allowed me to stay here. Master Dante's father bought and paid for this house, but the deed's in my name. Every year, when the tax assessors come around, I manage to scrape together enough to pay them, and keep living here."

"If the deed is in your name," Marcus frowned, "wouldn't the Montroses have been tipped off about where you live?"

Clarice gave him a pitying look. "Now, you don't think I'd have had his Lordship put my real name on that deed, do you?" she glared. "He knew he had enemies, even then. He never recognized my young master as his son, the whole time that poor boy was growing up. It was only after his own, legitimate sons were murdered that he even deigned to acknowledge him."

"Dante…told me a bit about that," Marcus said slowly, accepting the cup of tea she offered him. "Is it safe to mention his name here?" he asked. "I know you're concerned about being found out."

"I have a Muffle enchantment on the stone," the old nurse said, pointing to the heavy rock against the door. "No one will hear us." Marcus relaxed.

"Why did the crown do nothing to stop the Montroses in their bid for power through assassination?" he asked her now.

Clarice snorted. "Clearly, you've never been to High Rock before," she said, with a wry twist to her mouth. "Political intrigue is the order of the day around here. Everyone is always trying to pull themselves up in the world by tearing others down. It's how most of the noble families got where they are. Even the Greyshadows had their share of rogues and scallywags."

 _They still do,_ Marcus thought privately. He sipped the tea and felt the pressures of the day lifting from his shoulders. The fire in the hearth crackled merrily and the old woman smiled at him from across the table.

"Tell me now, young Marcus," Clarice invited. "How did you meet Master Dante?"

A part of him wondered how much he could safely tell the old nurse. She might not take too kindly to the knowledge that her former charge was now master of a Guild of thieves.

"My wife owed him a favor," he said carefully, sipping the tea again. "He did her a favor, and he called it in."

"Oh, you're married?" Clarice smiled. "How wonderful! How long have you been married?"

"About a year or so," Marcus grinned, still madly in love with his beautiful wife. "She's a Breton, too, by the way, though she's never been here. We're expecting our first child in a couple of months." He wasn't sure why he said that, but the woman across the table seemed pleased to hear it.

"Babies!" Clarice exclaimed delightedly, her face lighting up. "I just love babies! So, you're helping him because your wife isn't able to?"

"Yes," Marcus nodded, draining his cup. It was very good tea, he realized, and willingly held his cup out when she hefted the pot. "Of course, I have other children I adopted, orphaned because of the war in Skyrim."

"Interesting," the old woman nodded. A part of his mind registered that she hadn't touched her tea yet, but it was so nice to just sit and chat, without worrying about all the troubles pressing on his mind. "Tell me, young Marcus: what has my young master been doing all these years? Has he been hiding out in Skyrim, then?"

"No," Marcus replied, shaking his head to clear his vision. For some reason, everything seemed to move in and out of focus. "No, he's been in Cyrodiil…" His voice faltered. He wasn't sure why, but something didn't seem right. The old woman was very sweet and kind, and the tea was…it was…

He slumped a bit in his seat. A sudden weakness seemed to have come over him. "You…drugged…me…" he managed to get out.

Clarice smiled. "Of course," she shrugged. "If you truly meant to harm me, you could have, but you didn't. I ask myself, 'why is he here, then, clumsily throwing both my name and Master Dante's around?' And I find I don't have an answer for it. I don't like not having answers, so now I will ask some more detailed questions, and you will answer truthfully. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Marcus managed to get out. He could not have refused if he wished it.

"Now then," the old nurse said briskly. "Who are you, and why are you here?"

"I'm Marcus of Whiterun," he answered slowly, struggling against the drug she had slipped into his tea, "also known as Dragonborn. I'm here to find out if the Thalmor are interfering in Breton politics to drive a wedge between High Rock and the Empire."

Clarice was silent for several heartbeats. "That's…not the answer I expected," she admitted. "Why would the Dominion do this?"

"They want to destroy the Empire and her allies, in order to wipe out humanity, the beast races, and other races of Elves that are not Altmer."

The old woman's eyes widened in shock. "Why would they do that?" she breathed.

"They believe they are descended from the gods themselves, and that other races don't deserve to live," Marcus answered dutifully, though a part of him inside was raging against his compliance. "They believe if they wipe out the other races, they can regain their divinity."

Clearly shaken, the old Breton nurse asked, "How did you meet my young master?"

"He saved my wife, who had been captured by the Thalmor down in Cyrodiil. We owed him for that, so we agreed to help him reclaim Mehrunes' Razor."

Clarice sat stunned for several more heartbeats. She knew what Mehrunes' Razor was, and what it heralded. "Why would he want such a horrible thing?" she asked, steeling herself against the answer she dreaded.

"He wanted to keep it out of the hands of the Mythic Dawn, which was attempting to make a comeback," Marcus replied. Clarice relaxed, but only a little.

"So, he has no intention of using it himself against the Emperor?" she asked.

"No," Marcus responded, and a wave of relief swept over the old woman. "He was very clear about that a couple of weeks ago when we went to get it."

"Well, that's a mercy, at least," Clarice muttered. "What has he been doing in Cyrodiil all these years, then? Why hasn't he contacted me before now?"

"He's the Guildmaster of the Cyrodiil Thieves Guild," Marcus answered. Inside he was kicking himself, but the drug had too strong a hold on him to resist. "He's known to some as the Grey Fox. To others, he's a respectable antiques dealer named Lance de Fer. That's how the Emperor knows him. I don't know why he hasn't gotten in touch with you."

"He's met the Emperor?" Clarice exclaimed with alarm. "How?"

"He's a Counselor to the Emperor now," Marcus replied. "He saved Titus Mede from an assassination attempt a few months ago."

"This isn't good," Clarice worried. "If His Eminence sees Master Dante, he'll _know_ who he is! He looks too much like his mother for the Emperor _not_ to know! Does my young master know who he is?"

Marcus fought against answering, but his lips and tongue seemed to have a mind of their own this morning. "He does now," he admitted. "When we went to get a piece of the Razor, we spoke with a Matriarch of the Reach named Drascua. She revealed to him who he is, and where he got the birthmark you burned into him with his mother's ring, when he was a baby."

Clarice's eyes widened. "No one knows that," she breathed. "I…I believe you now, young Marcus. You really _have_ met my young master. Where is he now?" she pleaded.

"On his way to Hammerfell," Marcus answered, "for the same reason I'm here: to find out how much the Dominion has infiltrated the political structure, to undermine the Empire."

Clarice sighed, and rose from the table. She reached above the hearth to take a small packet down from a clay jar. Pouring its contents into a mug of cool water from a barrel near the window, she presented it to Marcus. "Drink this," she ordered. "It will nullify the drug I gave you."

Marcus said not a word, but drained the cup dry. Both waited in silence as the shadows shortened to midday outside.

"Tell me a falsehood," Clarice ordered him, finally.

"Why?" Marcus asked.

The old woman chuckled. "Just the fact that you questioned my order is a good sign. Tell me one anyway."

"Alright," the Dragonborn said sourly. "I'm delighted you slipped me a mickey."

A low chuckle came from his companion. "Well, I don't know what a 'mickey' is, but I assume you _really_ mean you're not happy I drugged you."

"Would you be?" Marcus frowned.

"No," she agreed, "but can you blame me?" She eyed him sharply. "I've successfully hidden for over twenty years in the same town from people who want me dead, and you come barging in here and bring up a subject best left in the ashes of the past, where it belongs. I can only hope you weren't stupid enough to ask the guards where I could be found."

Marcus cringed inwardly. It _had_ been on his mind, if he hadn't been able to find her house. And he _had_ inquired of the locals where it was.

Clarice saw the look that swept across his face and drew her own conclusions. Sighing, she got up and looked around. "Well, it hasn't been much, but it's been home. I'll surely miss it."

"Now wait a minute," Marcus protested. "You don't have to move—"

"Don't I?" she demanded, whirling around to face him. Marcus had no answer. He couldn't say for certain if anyone he had spoken to that morning was part of House Montrose or not. Clarice let out a breath of exasperation. "All I ask of you now, young Marcus, is to see me safely out of High Rock. If you can do that for me, I'll find some other place where I can spend what's left of my twilight years."

"I owe you that, I suppose," the younger man agreed. "I know a place where I can take you. I have a house in Markarth, just over the border in Skyrim. Vlindrel Hall, it's called. My wife is there now, waiting for my return. She wants to have our baby there. But I haven't even started what I came here to do!"

Clarice's face softened. "Will she have anyone to help her?" she asked.

Marcus nodded. "The local alchemist, Bothela, will be looking after her. Your expertise would be most welcome, though."

The old Breton woman considered this. "It might do, for now," she agreed. "At least until Master Dante returns from Hammerfell. And when he does, there will be a conversation to be had." The grimness with which she spoke made Marcus shudder involuntarily. He felt an unaccountable measure of sympathy for the Grey Fox in that moment.

"I suppose the question now," she continued, "is how long do you think this… _investigation_ …of yours might take?"

Helplessly, Marcus spread his hands wide. "I honestly have no idea," he said. "I'm not even sure where to start looking. I can't just barge into the High King's palace and demand answers. I might be Dragonborn in Skyrim, but here I'm a nobody."

"I wouldn't sell yourself too short, young Marcus," Clarice soothed. "Word of what you did, destroying Alduin the World-Eater, and taking out the entire Volkihar vampire clan, is spreading. We've even heard of it here, in High Rock."

 _Well, I didn't take out the_ entire _clan,_ Marcus thought privately, thinking of Serana and her mother, Valerica. Serana had gone to work with the Alliance in Mzulft, in eastern Eastmarch Hold, and Valerica had remained at Volkihar Keep, content to explore and expand her necromancy, and to maintain a vigilance over the portal to the Soul Cairn and the Ideal Masters. It was a self-appointed task. Durnehviir was a frequent visitor to the Keep.

"The point is," the old nurse continued, "the sands in the hourglass are running down. I can't assume no one overheard you asking about me who wouldn't have connections to House Montrose. High Rock is full of spies, and Wayrest is no exception. An Imperial stranger comes into town and begins asking where he can find an old Breton nurse? There are those here who have long memories. My life will become increasingly endangered."

"Then I'll have to act quickly," Marcus said. "Greyshadow told me he always felt it was odd that House Montrose – a lesser House of the nobility – should have suddenly come into enough money to pay assassins to take out Lord Greyshadow and his family."

"I felt the same way," Clarice agreed. "I had no love for his Lordship – I always felt he did wrong by my young master – but no one should die like that, knifed in the back in a dusty, unused corridor."

"Who else would profit by having the Montroses come into power like that?" Marcus wondered.

"I honestly don't know," Clarice admitted. "I've racked my brains these past couple of decades trying to reason it out, and I just can't. Although, now that you've mentioned the Thalmor, I wouldn't put it past them to attempt something like this. But this all happened twenty years ago or so. Surely they couldn't have been plotting to eliminate House Greyshadow to prevent an heir to the Ruby Throne! How could they even have known?"

Marcus thought hard. "You sent a letter to the Empire, right after Princess Lucinda died," he said. "We saw it in a vision Matriarch Drascua conjured in her pensieve. You returned her ring to her father." Clarice gave a small gasp, but didn't deny it. She shook her head sadly.

He stood up and began pacing across the small cottage; it was his way of thinking. "If someone in the Emperor's inner circle knew of that letter – if they were there when he received it – they could have passed that information along to the Dominion. We know a man named Amaund Motierre made an attempt against Titus Mede's life not long ago that Greyshadow thwarted – it was that act that won him the position at court as Counselor to the Emperor. Motierre was in deep with the Dominion. He'd been promised the Ruby Throne by them, unaware he was their puppet. They would have pulled his strings, and he would have done what they wanted, further weakening an already crumbling Empire."

"You think this Amaund Motierre knew about the letter I sent to his Majesty?" Clarice worried.

"It's possible," Marcus nodded. "But it could just as easily have been another operative we know nothing about. Regardless, whoever that person is or was, if they were already a Thalmor toady, it's quite possible the Dominion learned about the Princess's relationship with Lord Edwyn Greyshadow, and figured out why she ran away."

"They wouldn't have needed a letter to tell them that," Clarice brooded. "My young mistress was never secretive about her infatuation with his Lordship. I tried to tell her to give him up," she sighed, "that he was already married and couldn't give her what she wanted. She just wouldn't listen to me."

"She was in love," Marcus shrugged. "People in love rarely listen to anyone who tries to crush their dream. In any case, it would seem there must have been some information passed along to the Dominion that made them paint a target on the back of House Greyshadow. What I can't figure out is _why?_ Why wipe out the entire family, if that's what they did, when there was no suggestion of an heir?"

"I don't think the Thalmor were after an heir," Clarice said. "When I first brought Master Dante here as a baby, I asked to meet Lord Greyshadow privately, outside of Wayrest. I was actually surprised that he agreed to meet with me. He had no reason to, though I'm sure he knew who I was."

"How did that meeting go?" Marcus asked.

"His Lordship told me he already knew my mistress had run away from home," the old nurse said. "Apparently he'd been contacted by Imperial emissaries regarding the matter. At first, he thought I was trying to arrange a meeting between him and the Princess Lucinda. He was shocked when I told him she had died giving birth to his son. He didn't deny the boy was his."

"Was that when he set you and the baby up in this house?"

"Aye," Clarice nodded. "And I made sure he put a false name on the deed. At the time, I was more worried about reprisals from the Imperial court than from any local threat."

Marcus stood and pondered this. "You know," he mused, "you're remarkably well-spoken for someone who has been in your position in life."

Clarice glared at him. "I've been around nobility all my life, young Marcus," she said sharply. "I taught both my young master _and_ his mother how to read and write. I lived at the Imperial court for over half my life. Why shouldn't I be well-spoken?"

Marcus put up his hands in a calming gesture. "I meant no offense," he apologized. "It just surprised me, that's all."

"If you've had dealings with the Thalmor," she muttered, still ruffled, "you should know that looks can be deceiving."

"You're right about that, Clarice," he agreed.

"You'd best be calling me 'Nonna,' young Dragonborn," she cautioned. "On the other side of that door, calling me by my real name could – how did you put it? – paint a target on my back."

"Of course…Nonna," Marcus complied, grinning. He quickly sobered, however. "We still don't have a connection between the Thalmor and House Montrose."

"They might not have had anything to do with this," Nonna shrugged. "It might have been coincidence. But I haven't survived this long by blindly accepting coincidences."

Marcus frowned. "If what you said before is true," he pondered out loud, "that the crown turns a blind eye to political upheaval in High Rock, would it do any good to prove the Montroses are responsible for wiping out House Greyshadow?"

"Perhaps not," Nonna said sourly, "but it would certainly make _me_ feel better!"

Marcus laughed. "I think your 'young master' would agree with you," he grinned. "Still, from what I've seen in Skyrim, those in power can only ignore an issue for just so long before they have to step up and do something about it, or risk no longer being in power."

"You sound like you speak from experience," Nonna said keenly.

"I was framed for murders I didn't commit in Markarth," he explained, "and thrown into Cidhna Mine. This was before I killed Alduin. The Silver-Blood family set me up for a fall, and were determined to lock me up and throw away the key."

"But you clearly escaped," Nonna pointed out.

"Only because I made a deal with the King in Rags in there, Madanach, the Reach King," Marcus explained. "He was going to break out anyway. I could have followed along, but my name would still have been stained with blood I never spilled. He took the blame for the murders he had his people commit on Thonar Silver-Blood's orders."

"And in return?"

"I agreed to help him win back the Reach, his ancestral lands," Marcus shrugged. "Only I insisted that it be done by getting the High King or High Queen of Skyrim to secede the lands to them. I didn't want any more blood spilled over it."

Clarice stared at him in wonder. "Do you have that much power in Skyrim?" she queried in awe.

"No," the young Dragonborn admitted. "But I know people. Jarl Igmund was responsible for what went on in his Hold, and he had allowed the Silver-Bloods to gain too much power. He was afraid to move against them. During the break-out, both Thonar and his brother, Thongvor – who was angling to become Jarl of the Reach – were killed. Not by _my_ hand," he hastened to assure her, "but their deaths helped pave the way to an independent Reach. Jarl Igmund made me a Thane, by way of apology, but it didn't prevent the other Jarls from calling for his removal. He should never have allowed it to go that far. If the Silver-Bloods had succeeded in keeping me in Cidhna Mine forever, there would have been no one to stop Alduin from destroying everything."

"And are you now in charge of the Reach?" Nonna asked, still in awe. "Are you the Jarl?"

"What, me?" Marcus laughed. "No! A thousand times, no!" He laughed again. "I have enough on my plate without that responsibility! We appointed an interim Jarl, until a new one could be named by the High King or Queen of Skyrim – which we still don't have yet, by the way. But he was murdered by Thalmor agents not long ago, and his Steward, a Reachwoman named Esmerelda, is interim Jarl now."

"I see your point, young Marcus," Clarice nodded slowly. "You believe that if enough evidence is presented to the High King of High Rock, about the treachery of House Montrose, that he would have to do something about it."

"If he doesn't want his own position taken from him in a similar manner, yes," Marcus nodded firmly. "Perhaps I should work on that angle."

"That still doesn't help you find out what the Thalmor may or may not be doing here in our Province," Nonna pointed out.

"I know," Marcus said, "but I've learned from experience that once you start digging in one area, another whole new area tends to open up from it."

In the end, Nonna insisted Marcus stay with her.

"I have two good reasons," she told him, when he would have protested. "One, if by your negligence you've called attention to me, you might be able to help ward off an attack."

"I don't know about that," Marcus demurred. "You're a Daedra with that quarterstaff! I pity anyone who comes after you! I'm thinking I should take lessons from you."

Nonna chuckled. "And I'd be happy to teach you, young Marcus, as I taught my young master all those years ago. But my second reason is that you need a base of operation while you're here in Wayrest. My place is less public, if you need to work behind the scenes."

Marcus nodded. From a certain perspective, it made sense; but he worried he might bring reprisals down on Clarice's head, and said as much to her.

"You let me worry about myself," she dismissed. "Do what you need to do. And if there's any way you can be quick about it, so much the better."

Knowing he risked offending her if he turned her down, and reluctant to do such a thing, he agreed, but on condition she allow him to make some needed repairs to her cottage. By the end of the day he had fixed her shutters and had arranged for a thatcher to come and repair the roof.

That night, after Nonna had retired to bed in the loft, Marcus lay down on his bedroll near the hearth. Clarice was certainly not the person he expected her to be. He had assumed she would be elderly, and she certainly seemed to be advanced in her years, but she was far from the plump, infirm, grandmotherly type he had expected her to be. Who she had been before becoming nurse to first Princess Lucinda, and then Greyshadow himself was a mystery, but he had the feeling there was far more to the old woman than anyone had given her credit for.

 _It just goes to show what can happen when you assume, Marcus,_ he mocked himself as he drifted off. _You make an 'ass' of 'u' and 'me.' And did I ever!_

* * *

 _The best laid plans,_ Dante sighed to himself wryly.

His original intention had been to go directly to Hammerfell from Skyrim, and to simply send his luggage on from Whiterun to Cyrodiil. But a courier had caught up to him at the Bannered Mare where he had stopped to speak with Saadia again, and it had changed his plans.

" _Expected you back before now. Return with the information requested."_

That was it. No signature, but Dante knew who it was from. He recognized the precise, upright, efficient handwriting, and it was sealed with Titus Mede's personal seal. Well, that was it, then. He would have to return to Cyrodiil at once, and not with the news his Emperor had hoped to hear.

"Bad news?" Saadia asked, seeing his face fall.

"No," Dante mustered a smile. "Just…a delay, that's all. Tell me again where I can find this cousin of yours. What was his name again?"

"Cyrus," she murmured quietly, glancing around the common room. Mikael was bellowing forth another tiresome rendition of _Ragnar the Red,_ and all the patrons were focused on him, but Dante appreciated her discretion. "The problem is," Saadia went on, "Cyrus is a common name for many Redguards. It has to do with our hero of folklore."

"I'm not familiar with that tale," Dante said.

"I'll have to tell you some other time," Saadia promised. "Hulda's giving me the stink-eye right now. I'm sure she thinks I'm spending too much time talking to you."

"Tell her it's just good customer relations," he grinned. "Just tell me where your cousin is before you go."

"The last place I'd heard, he was in Hegathe. He moves around a lot. But if anyone can help you in Hammerfell, it's Cyrus." She slipped a piece of parchment into his hands without Hulda noticing. "Give him this note from me. It should allay his suspicions." He tucked it into an inner pocket.

So, he had a name and a vague description, based on what Saadia remembered of her cousin before she had fled her native land. Cyrus, being also a member of House Suda, might also be on the run, she had cautioned him. "He keeps his face hidden behind a closed helmet," she had added, "and wields our ancestral greataxe that he inherited from our grandfather. Our family legends say it's made from the bones of dragons. We never really believed it when we were younger, but with the dragons coming back…" She left the sentence unfinished and returned to her duties.

Great. He had to find a Redguard he didn't know, whom he could barely describe, who hid his face and wielded a greataxe. He sighed. It wasn't impossible, and he was sure he'd had less to go on in other ventures, but he couldn't remember just now.

But first, he needed to return to the Imperial City and have a conversation with the Emperor. It would take all his charm and persuasion to get the old man to agree to him making a diplomatic excursion to Hammerfell.

The trip back down to Cyrodiil and the Imperial City was mercifully uneventful. Nightshade seemed to have stamina to spare, and he made good time, the trip taking only two days by horse that had taken five by carriage. It was late when he arrived at his shop, where he normally resided, when not conducting Guild or Court business, but a liveried footman was waiting for him as he approached.

"Counselor de Fer?"

"Yes?" He recognized the emblem as the personal coat of arms of His Eminence, the Emperor, himself.

"I'm to escort you to the Emperor at once."

"You've been waiting out here for me all this time?" Dante queried.

"His Eminence was unsure if you would return here or to the White-Gold Tower first," the young man said. "I'm just doing as ordered, sir."

"Fine," Dante sighed. There would be no soft bed for him tonight. "Lead on."

He was ushered into the Emperor's private chambers, where he had been on several occasions. What he was not prepared for, however, was the three figures closeted with the old Imperial. Ashabareth Vaneris, Drelan Suvaris and Beor Iron-Fist smiled sheepishly at him from their seats on a side divan. Hiding his consternation, and ignoring them for the moment, he approached his Emperor.

"Ah, de Fer! There you are!" the old Imperial smiled. There was a smugness there that Dante could not fail to notice. "I trust your mission to Skyrim was successful?"

"Perhaps not as successful as your Eminence might have wished," Dante demurred, throwing a sidelong glance at the other three people in the room. "Should we be discussing this in front of strangers, my lord?"

"Strangers?" Titus Mede chortled. "Oh, come now, de Fer, if that's truly your name. We're all friends here, aren't we?" He threw the last question to the three on the divan, who shrugged and smiled helplessly. Dante felt his stomach drop to his bowels. _We're fucked,_ he thought. _The old man knows! Think fast, Dante, think fast!_ He didn't blame his cohorts. Something must have happened to have blown their cover.

"No, I think this is the perfect time to clear the air of a lot of misunderstandings," the Emperor went on. "Why don't you sit down, and make yourself more comfortable, de Fer – or should I say, Counselor _Greyshadow?_ This may take some time."

And it did. The Chamberlain, a fussy-minded Imperial named Justinian came in with a box, and while the Emperor lingered over a goblet of fine port, he pulled out a letter, a ring, and a miniature portrait. Something tightened in Dante's throat as he stared into the eyes of a mother he had never known.

"I had a feeling I knew who you were the first day I saw you, young Greyshadow," the Emperor said, not unkindly. "You may have his eyes, but you're the spitting image of her, my beloved Luci. If it hadn't been for your friends, here, you might have been able to hide who you were a while longer. After all, I'm old, and my memories aren't what they used to be. But there's no mistaking the resemblance."

Dante turned to Asha and the others. "What happened to blow your cover?"

"Oh, don't blame them too harshly," the Emperor cut in. "This one saved my life," he added, pointing to Asha. "They all did, really. Caught an assassin putting poisonous vipers in my chambers. That's when I knew they were more than they pretended to be."

"You did tell us to protect him, Boss," Drelan shrugged.

"Yes," Dante nodded. "Yes, I did."

"And I think I know why," Titus Mede chuckled. "You hoped to win the Ruby Throne through gratitude, didn't you?"

Dante bowed before the logic and spread his hands. "It was a gamble, my liege. I've lost such risks before."

"Lost?" the Emperor snorted. "Who says you've lost?"

Dante blinked. "My lord?"

"You're my grandson, dammit!" the old Imperial snapped. "You're my blood! This is better – almost – than adopting the Dragonborn. I know, I know," he said wearily, waving off the younger man. "You've already told me he's not interested. That's why when the Daedra spit in your wine, you learn to make the best of it."

"Forgive me for interrupting, Sire," Drelan ventured, "but I don't think acknowledging the Boss here as your heir is such a good idea at the moment."

"Huh?" Titus Mede frowned. "Why not?"

"Think of it, Sire," Drelan urged. "Right now, you have the entire Dominion breathing down your neck, waiting for you to die so they can make their move."

"You think I don't know that?" the Emperor demanded. "That's one of the reasons I sent your _Boss_ , here,on his diplomatic mission to enlist the Dragonborn as my adopted heir!"

"I know, Sire," Drelan soothed, "but consider: if you announce that you have found your long-lost grandson, you not only make him a target, but you also throw your entire Council into a veritable war, debating his legitimacy as an heir. They will have to dig into his background to find out who he is, and where he's from—"

"That would definitely _not_ be a good idea, your Eminence," Dante hastened to add, thinking of the Guild.

"And it might only aggravate tensions between the Dominion and the Empire," Drelan concluded. "If you truly want the Boss to be your heir, you'll need to introduce him gradually in that capacity. Hone him in the diplomatic arts, and school him in all the nuances of court behavior."

"You sound like you've had experience in these matters, Suvaris," Titus Mede remarked drily.

Drelan shrugged. "I've spent some time in the various courts in Morrowind, I won't deny that."

"Well, you make some very good points," the Emperor admitted. "Of course, there is this other matter that needs to be considered."

"What matter is that, Sire?" Dante asked, dreading the next shoe to fall. He wasn't disappointed.

"Why, the matter of you running the Thieves Guild here, of course!" Titus Mede said sharply.

A gasp from Asha, Beor and Drelan told Dante the information hadn't come from them, and he was grateful for their discretion.

"Thieves Guild? Me?" he bluffed. "I'm not sure I understand—"

"Well, then," the Emperor smirked, "let me make it plainer for you. Though I'm quite sure you know what I'm talking about." He pulled a packet of documents from the box and laid them on the table. Even from here, Dante could see his name under the seal.

"There was a scuffle down in the Arena District the other day," the old Imperial said. "As near as my guards can figure it, some Dominion soldiers were chasing down someone they claimed to be a Talos-worshipper. They killed him, right out there in the streets, but before they could get to him, to haul his body away, my guards stepped in and invoked my authority. The Dominion toadies attempted to bluster and throw their weight around, but my guards stood firm and refused to release the body to them. They finally backed down, but threatened to report the incident to their Ambassador. My guards told them they could reclaim the body once they had an official release from me."

The Emperor paused and sipped his port. "I gave them their release," he continued, "but only after Captain Varilus gave me the poor sod's possessions – except for his amulet of Talos, of course. He left that on the body when he turned it over to the Dominion. The murdered man apparently had these in his possession. Go ahead, take a look through them. I did. I found them…quite interesting."

Unable to refuse a direct order from his Emperor, Dante did as he was bid and picked up the packet. The seal, of course, was broken. The documents contained detailed information to him about Dominion movements between several Ayleid ruins across Cyrodiil. When he finished looking through them, he folded them and handed them back to the Emperor.

"Keep them," the old man said. "They're yours, after all, aren't they, _Grey Fox?"_

Dante swallowed hard. "What happens now?" he asked, proud of his control over himself. Inside he was a caged animal looking for a way out.

"Now?" the Emperor chuckled. "Now we will have several closed-door meetings, just you and I – and maybe your three cohorts here – so you can tell me exactly how much you know about the Dominion, and how you are working against them. And maybe…just maybe…we can find a way together to beat those pointy-eared bastards back to Alinor where they belong!"

* * *

The three-day passage to Hegathe aboard the _Galestrider_ was interrupted only once by a storm on the last day, early in the morning. Dante woke up to the ship being tossed about, buffeted by the waves and high winds. Over his head, above the shriek of the storm, he heard men and women shouting orders, feet pounding on the decks and the creak and crack of the joints in the _Galestrider_ as she struggled against the grip of the sea, attempting to drag her down to its depths.

Dante felt a measure of concern, but he had the utmost confidence in Captain Averil. It had been difficult enough to get Titus Mede to agree to the trip in the first place, but Dante had persuaded him the need to investigate the rumors. Captain Averil had been hand-picked by the Emperor to carry his grandson to Hammerfell. A seasoned veteran, she had logged thousands of hours on the Abacean Sea, and was a skilled marine who used sword and spell against any potential threat.

It had taken some time, but Dante and his companions had finally convinced the Emperor of the need for secrecy and stealth.

"This is my bailiwick, Sire," Dante said. "If we're going to take our enemy by surprise, we need to hold our cards close to the vest."

"I'm not stupid, young man," Titus Mede frowned. "I know what you're saying. It's one reason why we're meeting alone, without a lot of those flouncy courtiers fawning all over me."

"We should limit our meetings, as well," Asha put in. She was to remain at the White-Gold Tower for now, protecting the Emperor under her guise as a chambermaid. "If we meet too often, or for too long, there are some who – if they aren't already – will become suspicious about what Councilor de Fer and the Emperor are discussing that's so important it has to be done privately."

"You make a good point, my dear," Titus Mede nodded. "But I insist on remaining informed about developments. I need to know what the Dominion is up to. It's the only way I can counter some of their efforts to undermine my authority here and across Tamriel."

"We'll make sure you get regular reports, sir," Dante assured him. "Now that you know what we're about, I need to keep you in the loop."

"And you say the Dragonborn is doing something similar up in Skyrim?" the old Imperial inquired.

Dante nodded. "That's my understanding, sir."

"So that's why Tullius' reports have been so vague and sketchy," Titus Mede mused. "I ought to have him court-martialed for going behind my back. But I think this is far too critical to indulge in petty squabbling. Tullius is doing the best he can, so far away from my authority, and I realize this is not something he could have put into a letter. I had no idea the Dominion was as mobilized as it is."

"They're not ready to strike yet, so far as we can tell," Beor offered helpfully. "But there can be no doubt they are definitely building their strength. Some of the communications we've…uh…'liberated'…from the Ayleid outposts even refer to the Great War as 'the First War with the Empire,' implying there will be a second."

"My Empire can't withstand another onslaught like that," the Emperor sighed, his brow creased with worry. "We lost too much. I rejected the terms, knowing they would never be accepted by the other Provinces, and it led us to war, only to lose thousands of lives over a course of four years, and end up accepting practically the same terms that were dictated at the beginning."

"The Thalmor are to blame for that, Your Majesty," Asha soothed. "They set you up deliberately for a fall. It's what they do. Take comfort in the fact that they suffered at least as much. We Altmer don't have children as often as humans do. It will take quite some time for the Dominion to rebuild their forces, even if they have the Bosmer, Khajiit and Argonians on the front lines for them."

"My reports suggest the Mane in Elsweyr is still loyal to the Dominion," Dante added, "but there are several splinter groups that are not happy with their Thalmor overlords. We may be able to turn that to our advantage."

"Perhaps," Titus Mede acknowledged, "but for now, the most important thing is to start mending fences." He sighed. "I guess you'll have to go to Hammerfell after all, my boy," he said to Dante. "And Drelan, I'll need you to take some communiques from me to Morrowind – uh, with your permission?" He lifted an eyebrow to the Grey Fox, who nodded.

"I can spare him for this," Dante agreed. "Asha, I'll need you and Beor to stick close."

"I can give him a promotion of sorts, if you like," Titus Mede smirked. "Something that would allow him to work inside the Tower here."

"No," Dante replied, surprising his grandfather. "He'll be of much greater use outside, keeping his eyes and ears open."

"Count on me, Boss," Beor grinned. "I know every beggar on the street."

In a short time, Drelan and Beor had their orders and retired for the night. Asha hovered in the background to give the Emperor a private moment with his grandson.

"I can't say I'm exactly proud of what you've become," Titus Mede murmured, clapping Dante on the shoulder, "but on the other hand, you've come a long way from where you started."

"It's not like I had a lot of choice in the matter," Dante frowned.

"I know, my boy, I know," the Emperor soothed. "But this business with the Thieves Guild…it doesn't sit well with me. By law, I should send the Penitus Occulatus down there and haul you all off to the Imperial City dungeons, but—"

"But?" Dante prompted.

"But I can't deny that your resources have uncovered a plot against me which could have had disastrous results," the old Imperial finished. "How has the Dragonborn managed to acquire the information he's accumulated so far?"

Dante chuckled. "He patronized the Thieves Guild there in Skyrim, and he's turning it into a spy network."

A loud, long guffaw emitted from the old man, that ended in a brief coughing spate. When he recovered, his eyes twinkled in merriment. "Is that what I should do here?" he grinned. "Turn you all into spies?"

Dante smirked. The same smirk, had he but realized, that his grandfather was prone to, when he was amused about something. "Isn't that what we're doing?"

Less than a week later, he was on his way to Hammerfell, with a pouch of important documents for the leaders of both the Crown and the Forebears, both of whom held their headquarters in Sentinel. He would get there, eventually, he knew, but first he had to stop in Hegathe.

It was a typical port city, but with a distinct Redguard flair. Situated at the far southern edge of the Alik'r Desert, jammed against the Abacean Sea, Hegathe bustled with all the activity of an anthill baking in the sun. Lengths of colorful cloth zig-zagged their way overhead across the narrow streets, offering some shade from the blistering sun, which had returned with a vengeance after the summer storm had passed and glared blindingly against the marble and stucco buildings and clay tile roofs. Here and there, domed towers loomed over the city, keeping watch on the people and ships that made Hegathe one of the largest cities in Hammerfell.

The smell of fish was strong by the docks, but one didn't have to go far into the city to catch the scent of aromatic herbs and exotic spices. Brightly woven tapestries hung from many stalls, mostly to block the sun and wind, though some were offered for sale. Most of the merchants displayed their goods just outside their doors, as it became too stifling to do business inside, and for this reason the main market area rang with the sounds of sellers hawking their wares, musicians entertaining the crowds, children shrieking in delight at the puppet shows and the intense, constant humming of people conducting their business on this day.

A vendor selling weaponry caught his eye, and Dante crossed the square to examine his goods. While everything looked to be of good quality, there was nothing in particular that caught his eye.

"Is there something sirrah might be looking for, which I might have?" the smith asked, smiling. A gold-capped tooth gleamed in his mouth.

"Not really," Dante replied. "You don't seem to have much in the way of greataxes."

"Is sirrah interested in greataxes?" the merchant blinked in surprise. "Sirrah does not seem to be the sort of man who would wield one."

"Looks can be deceiving," Dante said blandly. "Thanks anyway."

"There are other weaponsmiths here in Hegathe," the Redguard hastened to inform him. "Perhaps one of them will have what you seek?"

"Perhaps," Dante nodded. "Good day."

As he wandered through the crowded streets, Dante watched the people flowing around and past him – while keeping one hand securely on his belt pouch. Anyone wearing a closed helm was covertly scrutinized, and as quickly rejected. That one carried two scimitars; that one was a Khajiit a long way from home; that one was female. Those who did carry greataxes had ordinary, common blades. Nothing made from dragon bones, or anything otherwise unusual.

 _Except for that ebony one,_ Dante thought, his fingers itching. _Now_ there's _a thing of beauty!_ Ebony armor and weapons were a weakness for him, he knew. He couldn't help himself. When any of his Guild members brought in a haul, and there was something in it made of ebony, he always claimed it for himself; it didn't matter if he already had something just like it. He would grin and say, "If it's ebony, it belongs to me."

Unable to resist, he approached the Redguard with the ebony greataxe at the well, as the man removed his helm to get a drink of cool water.

"Greetings, friend," he smiled. "I couldn't help but admire your axe. It's ebony, isn't it?"

"Y-yes…" the man replied warily. "What of it?"

"Could you tell me where you acquired it?" Dante asked, pouring on the charm. "I'm Lance de Fer, and I'm a dealer of antiquities. I'd be interested in adding something like it to my shop in Cyrodiil."

"This isn't an antique," the Redguard frowned, still suspicious.

"Of course," Dante nodded. "But I've found – at least in my home town of the Imperial City – that weapons and armor of ebony sell very well, and can be very profitable for me." He smiled again, and managed to insert a hopeful look in his eyes to allay any fears the Redguard might have about his intentions.

The dark-skinned man gave him another long, wary look before making up his mind. "Talk to Shamar, in the Street of Iron, that way," he added, pointing. "He should be able to help you."

Dante bowed. "My thanks, friend. Please, accept this as a token of my gratitude. You may have saved me much wandering today." He pressed a few coins into the man's hand before heading in the direction pointed out to him, leaving a befuddled Redguard behind him.

The Street of Iron was long, unusually straight, and dominated by the smell of burning steel and coke, lined by forge after forge along its length. It was warmer here, too – almost unbearably so – and Dante began to regret the Nightingale armor he wore under his surcoat.

Each smith along this wider boulevard seemed dedicated to a certain type of smithing; weapons, armor, arrows, household goods, jewelry, farm implements…if you needed anything forged or smithed, it could be found here. It didn't take long for Dante to find Shamar, the ebonsmith, as his was the only stall that seemed dedicated to that metal.

"Looking for something in particular, sirrah?" the middle-aged Redguard asked. His grizzled dark hair was beginning to turn grey, but powerful muscles bulged from under his cinder-stained apron.

"I'm admiring your craftmanship," Dante replied. "You do some fine work."

"My thanks," Shamar smiled. "It's always nice when one's efforts are appreciated."

"I was wondering," Dante mused slowly, "do you ever work with something like, say, dragon bones?"

"Dragon bones?" Shamar snorted. "Not many of those come my way. I've heard tell of a smith in Skyrim who can work with them, but I wouldn't know where to begin. It's not like forging metal, after all."

"Strange," the Guildmaster pondered in a calculating manner, "I seem to recall seeing someone with a greataxe made of dragon bones recently."

"Have you, now?" the smith replied. "I'm afraid I can't help you there. I don't know anyone like that." But Dante noticed how the man refused to meet his eyes.

"Are you certain?" the Breton man pressed. "I'm a dealer in antiquities. I'd sure be interested in obtaining a weapon like that for my shop in Cyrodiil. There might even be a finder's fee for someone who could point me in the right direction."

The ebonsmith did look up then.

"I can't help you," he said flatly. "I'm sorry. I'm very busy. If you're here to buy something, I'm happy to help. Otherwise, I have to get back to work."

Feigning regret, Dante apologized and left the stall, but circled back around the block to observe the ebonsmith unseen. He wasn't disappointed. No more than a quarter hour passed before the Redguard called to his apprentice to take over the forge. He took off his apron and hung it on a hook by the open archway, then peered both ways up and down the street before heading in Dante's direction. The Breton Guildmaster slipped back around the corner and crouched behind a cluster of large, clay amphoras, unseen, as the ebonsmith strode past and turned a corner. Dante followed at a discreet distance.

For perhaps a dozen or more blocks, Dante kept the Redguard in his sights, despite the crowds of people coming out now that the sun was setting and the air was cooling off. He saw Shamar finally slip into a small tavern set back from the road, with a sort of open-air dining area out front. He eased into the shadows near the wall and crept up to the door, scrutinizing the interior before sidling in. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the interior gloom, but when they did, he saw Shamar speaking urgently to a Redguard in a closed helm seated at a back table. He dropped to a crouch and used his considerable skills in stealth to creep closer.

"You're sure you don't know him?" the helmeted Redguard demanded. The armor was well-fitted, seeming to offer both comfort and protection. The style was definitely Redguard, with pauldrons of some kind of beaten silver metal over plates of black that had been riveted securely to the leather base. Gauntlets of the same materials encased his hands, and the helmet was wreathed in a scarlet turban of fine linen, covering the metal of which it was made, which Dante did not immediately recognize. An unmarked surcoat of the same scarlet linen draped across his chest and back.

"I never saw him before, Cyrus, I swear," Shamar insisted. "But who else would ask about that greataxe of yours? I told you, you should let me give you one of my ebony ones. It would attract far less attention! The Crowns are calling for your head and the Forebears won't lift a finger to stop them."

"I won't give up my grandfather's greataxe, Shamar," Cyrus replied. "Not even to save my life. If the Crowns have sent this Breton after me, he will find I am not easily conquered."

Shamar sighed. "Cyrus, I beg you, as a friend, get out of Hegathe. Take a ship to Cyrodiil, or perhaps see if you can find your cousin. I heard she may have escaped to Morrowind."

"No," Cyrus's voice echoed from inside the helmet. "Iman is safer if I don't contact her—" He broke off and rose swiftly to his feet, drawing the dragonbone greataxe as a shadow broke away from the wall and revealed itself to be the Grey Fox.

"Put down your weapon," Dante said softly. "I'm not here to kill you."

"That's him, Cyrus!" Shamar exclaimed in dismay. "That's the man who was asking about you!"

"You were followed, Shamar!" Cyrus' voice bit out. "Who are you?" he demanded of the Breton Guildmaster. "What do you want with me? If you're an assassin, I think you'll find you'll have a fight on your hands."

"I said I'm not here to kill you," Dante replied calmly. "Can we all just sit down and discuss this like gentlemen?"

Slowly, the keenly sharp dragonbone greataxe slipped back into its holster on Cyrus' back.

"Is this wise, Cyrus?" Shamar asked, glaring daggers at Dante.

"I'll hear what he has to say, Shamar," Cyrus replied. "You should return to your forge."

"Are you certain?"

"I'll be fine," the younger Redguard insisted. "Leave us now. Thank you for your concern."

Unhappy at being dismissed, but unable to see a way around it, Shamar left, still stabbing Dante in the back with his eyes.

"That's a good friend you have there," the Grey Fox commented casually.

"He watches my back," Cyrus shrugged. "You're just better than most cutthroats sent after me."

Dante ignored the jab. "I have a letter for you, by way of introduction. It's in my inside pocket. May I retrieve it?"

"Who is the letter from?" Cyrus tensed.

"Your cousin, Iman," Dante replied, so softly Cyrus almost didn't catch it. "She goes by a different name now, by the way. She explains it in her letter."

After a long moment, Cyrus nodded. "Bring it out. But don't try anything foolish."

"Wouldn't dream of it," the Guildmaster remarked laconically. He carefully pulled Saadia's letter from inside his tunic, set it on the table between them and pushed it towards the Redguard.

"I'm going to go see if this place has rooms to let," he announced. "It seems like a nice enough place. You can read the letter while I do that, then we can talk."

Cyrus' eyes followed him at he moved to the bar to arrange lodging with the tavern keeper, before returning to the letter in his hand. He broke the seal, which was a simple glob of wax with no emblem on it.

" _My dear cousin,"_ the letter began, _"I hope this finds you well. Know that for now I am safe. The man who bears this letter can be trusted. He has already saved my life once. He needs information that only you can give him. Please help him, if you can. Your devoted cousin."_

There was no name signed, but Cyrus recognized the handwriting. If that wasn't enough, there was a small drawing of a desert rose, which had been his pet name for her when they were children, growing up together.

 _She was wise not to sign this,_ he chuckled to himself. _Dearest Iman, what have you involved yourself in now? Is not exile bad enough for you?_

Several minutes later, Dante returned and sat down. "You've read the letter?" he asked. Cyrus nodded. "And you'll help?"

"I haven't agreed to that yet," Cyrus forestalled. "My cousin may trust you, but I know nothing about you. She seems to believe I can help you, but I need to know what you want first."

"Fair enough," Dante nodded. "Can you take off the helmet? I prefer speaking to a face I can see."

"The helmet stays," Cyrus said flatly. "I only take it off when I'm in a secure place. This tavern – as nice as it is – is too public."

Dante sighed. "Very well. Is there someplace we can go where you _can_ take it off? I feel like I'm talking to a metal wall."

Startling blue eyes bored into his from behind the faceplate of the helmet. "When I trust you, I'll remove the helmet," Cyrus said with finality. "Not before."

This was not starting out well. "Have it your way," he shrugged. "I don't know what your cousin told you in her letter—"

"Not much."

"Then it looks like we're starting from scratch," Dante amended. "You said this tavern is too public. Fine. Pick a place where we can talk privately. You don't have to take off your helmet." He stood and eyed the younger man. "But it would be good manners if you did."

He turned and strode downstairs to his room. Sleeping quarters here in Hammerfell were, for the most part, below ground, where it was cooler. It didn't help to cool his temper, however. He had met many rude people in his time as a shopkeeper in Cyrodiil; he had had to deal with many varying personalities in his Guild – some greedy, some clueless, some just plain mean. It didn't mean he enjoyed being the recipient of discourtesy.

He had removed the surcoat and secured his belongings in the chest put in his room for that purpose when there came a soft knock on his door.

"Who is it?" he called.

"Cyrus," came the young Redguard's voice. "May I enter?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to claim he was fatigued after a long day, and make the young man wait until morning, but Nonna's teachings ran deep.

" _You don't repay poor behavior in kind,"_ she'd told him. _"Always take the high road when you can."_

"Of course," he replied. "Come in."

The tall, young Redguard entered and softly closed the door behind him.

"What can I do for you?" Dante asked politely. "It _is_ getting late, after all."

Cyrus reached up with both hands and removed his helmet, shaking out his dreadlocks and revealing a strong, handsome face marred only by a deep scar across his chin. Those blue eyes – the same as his cousin's – gazed back at him.

"I'm ready to talk."

* * *

 _[Author's Note: My muse seems to have returned after a long absence. I'm hoping to get the next chapter done soon. Thank you for reading, and please leave a review!]_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Dante gestured for Cyrus to seat himself before securing the door and casting a _Muffle_ spell upon it.

"What made you change your mind?" he asked, curious.

Cyrus shifted uncomfortably. "You questioned my honor," he admitted. "You accused me of discourtesy. Your words stung, because they were true. Forgive my suspicions, but I have been on the run for long enough to have forgotten the manners with which I was raised. My mother, were she still alive, would be ashamed of me."

"You're forgiven," Dante replied, sensing that somehow, Cyrus needed to hear those words. Indeed, the young Redguard seemed to relax.

"You said you needed my help," Cyrus went on. "And Iman encouraged me to give it to you. What do you need from me?"

"Well, first of all, I should tell you she goes by 'Saadia' now," Dante replied. "She insisted that's how I address her. She, too, is concerned about reprisals against her. Someone already sent assassins after her."

"She alluded to that in her letter," Cyrus nodded. "She said you had saved her life."

Dante shrugged. "I took out some Alik'r who were looking for her," he explained. "She's living at the Bannered Mare, an inn in the city of Whiterun in Skyrim. That's where I met her. She…wasn't exactly truthful to me at first, but we've…moved past that."

"We can't be too careful," Cyrus frowned. "The Crown wants us dead."

"Why?" Dante asked. "What did you do?"

"Before I answer that," Cyrus countered, "I must ask you how much you know of Hammerfell history and politics."

"Not a lot, I'm afraid," Dante confessed. "I had assumed by 'the Crown,' she meant the ruling faction of Hammerfell. It would help if you could explain exactly what the political situation is in Hammerfell at the moment."

Cyrus blew out a breath. "Where to begin?" he countered wryly. "Well, the first thing you should know is that we Redguards are not originally from Tamriel."

"That much I did know," Dante nodded. "You're originally from Yokuda, aren't you?"

"Yes," Cyrus confirmed. "But our native land sank into the sea ages ago. The first group of Redguards to come to Tamriel were an advance guard, an expeditionary force, whose purpose was to find a new land for our people, when we knew our homeland was doomed. They were known as the Ra Gada, and when they came to Tamriel, they found that part of the continent inhabited by ancient Orcish and Breton peoples. 'Ra Gada' became corrupted into 'Redguard' in the Common tongue."

"And you named your new country 'Hammerfell'?" Dante asked. "It doesn't really sound like a logical name for a region."

"We named it that because of the legends that came to us of the Dwemer that lived in the area before the Orcs and Bretons. Stories say that the Dwemer Rourken Clan came here after rejecting the creation of the Dwemer-Chimer state of Resdayne. This was before the Chimer became the Dunmer, you understand. At that time, they were a splinter group of Aldmer who rejected the co-mingling of the elvish pantheon of gods with the human ones." He shrugged. "The Dwemer legends say that the leader of the Rourken Clan threw his mighty hammer, Volundrung, across the country, and they followed to where it landed, naming the land 'Volenfell.' Hammer. Fell. Rather simple."

"So that's why the Dominion wanted a large portion of Hammerfell ceded back to them as part of the White-Gold Concordat," Dante realized.

Cyrus inclined his head. "Indeed. But of course, by the time they made that request, we Redguards had been living in that area for generations, and have come to view it as our homeland." He paused before resuming his original narrative. "Our original government, the Na-Totambu, was transplanted here with us," he continued. "But over time, we assimilated the traditions and cultures of many of the Nedic people still living in the area. This cause a schism within our own society, with some holding fast to the old ways of the Na-Totambu. Because they came after the advance guard, and are mostly of the nobility, they are known collectively as the Crown. The descendants of the Ra Gada, the original settlers, became known as Forebears. For some time, they co-existed peacefully enough, but during the Imperial Interregnum – when Emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh was imprisoned in Oblivion, and his Court Mage, Jagar Tharn impersonated him for several years after – the Crown established dominance and shifted their seat of governance from Hegathe to Sentinel, where both struggle for supremacy today."

Dante pondered this information for several minutes. Cyrus remained silent while his mind churned, and he appreciated that. Too many people liked to yammer on and on while he attempted to digest what he had heard. It was irritating.

"What you've told me makes some things rather clearer than they were," he finally said. "I'm just uncertain on a few points."

"Ask," Cyrus said. "If I know the answer, I'll tell you. If I don't, I won't."

"If House Suda is part of the nobility, then why does the Crown want to eliminate you?" he inquired. "Saadia told me at first that the Alik'r were sent after her because she spoke out publicly against the Aldmeri Dominion."

"Ha!" Cyrus barked. There was no amusement in the short laugh. "The Dominion is not welcome in Hammerfell," he pointed out. "It's likely she told you that because they are the Daedra everyone loves to hate right now."

"I didn't believe her," Dante felt obliged to point out. "I knew something wasn't adding up in her story."

Cyrus shook his head fondly. "She's a terrible liar," he stated, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "She never could tell a falsehood without my aunt finding out the truth."

"What _is_ the truth, in this case?" the Grey Fox pressed.

"I'll tell you," the young Redguard intoned, all mirth leaving his face. "The truth is that Im-, I mean, _Saadia_ , was pledged to be wed to Prince Azanir of House Tasa in Taneth. It was not her choice, but arranged by her parents. Saadia had even met Azanir before the official announcement of their betrothal, and was not averse to the union – until I overheard him speaking in his garden with a Thalmor operative."

"A Thalmor? In Hammerfell?" Dante blurted. "Are you sure?"

"There could be no doubt," Cyrus brooded. "They did not know I was there, on the other side of the hedge. Foolish of him not to have made certain they were alone. The operative was an Imperial, not an Altmer, as that would have aroused too much suspicion. But there was no question of his allegiance in his words."

"What were they talking about?"

"They spoke of Azanir's contribution to Dominion victory during the Great War," Cyrus frowned. "We had all believed him to have been a war hero, fighting for Hammerfell. He was older than Saadia or I, you see. He'd fought in the war."

"And you think this Prince Azanir was responsible for the fall of Taneth during the war?" Dante inquired, seeking clarification. It was the same charge Kematu had laid at Saadia's feet.

"He as much as admitted it," Cyrus glowered.

"And you didn't have proof to bring to anyone, I take it?" Dante surmised. "Just your word against a Prince?"

Cyrus nodded. "That's pretty much it." He blew out a sigh. "I'm afraid I made it worse by confronting the Prince after the Thalmor spy left. We got into an argument, and he drew his sword on me."

"I think I know where this is headed," Dante murmured.

"He didn't leave me much choice," Cyrus scowled. "He had had some basic training in swordsmanship, and he _had_ fought in the Great War. I, on the other hand, was younger than he, and had made a disciplined study of all forms of hand-to-hand combat. I left his body in the garden and raced home to gather what few supplies I could. My aunt and uncle confronted me and demanded to know what had happened. When I told them, they knew all their plans for Saadia had now been compromised. There would be reprisals from the Crown, and even Saadia's life would be in danger."

"They would blame the entire family for _your_ actions?"

"I dishonored the family name," Cyrus said stiffly. "We all would bear the shame, and we all would pay the consequences."

"Why didn't you flee Hammerfell?" Dante asked. "Why stay here?"

Cyrus' blue eyes burned into Dante's. "I can't clear my name, and I can't find the proof of Azanir's treason, if I'm in another Province," he stated. "As for any other Dominion interference in our politics, I am uncertain. If they are here, and if they are indeed interfering, they are likely doing so with non-Altmer operatives, like the one that spoke with Prince Azanir."

Dante nodded. It's what he would have done, if he were a Thalmor. He shuddered inwardly at that thought. His eyes wandered to the greataxe, carefully holstered at Cyrus' back.

"Does the Crown know you wield that weapon?" he asked now.

Cyrus shrugged. "I am uncertain. When my uncle was preparing to flee, he gave it to me. He said it had belonged to my grandfather, his father, and as he had no son, it should come to me. But it had been resting in a chest in his home for many years, unused. I don't remember any tales in our family of anyone actually using it. It's possible my grandfather bought or found it somewhere, or took it off someone as a trophy. I don't know."

"And what have you done, since you fled your family home, to find proof of the Prince's treason?" Dante queried.

Cyrus shifted uncomfortably again. "Very…little," he admitted. "Because I must hide behind this helm, I cannot gain entry to the Prince's residence. And because I must eat to live, I sell my sword arm as a mercenary, until such time as I can reclaim my honor."

How he kept himself from rolling his eyes in exasperation, Dante didn't care to dwell on. "Alright, let's think about this," he said, unconsciously stroking his beard. "Are there any ways to get into the Prince's residence that don't require the front door?"

"If there are, I am not familiar with them," the young Redguard said.

"What do you know about the headquarters of the Crown in Sentinel?"

"It's a large palace where the Inner Council meet to establish law and mete out justice," Cyrus said. "The Forebears also have a similar fortification on the opposite side of town."

"And is it possible to get into either of those places discretely?" the Guildmaster asked.

"I – I am uncertain."

Dante sank into deep thought. He had a few contacts in Hammerfell; people with whom he had done business in the past. One or two of them might even owe him a favor. It seemed a good time to call those in.

"Alright, Cyrus," Dante smiled, rising. "I think I've got enough to go on for the moment."

"I know I haven't been much help—"

"Nonsense," the Grey Fox smiled. "You've helped more than you know. For now, return to your lodgings. I'm going to do some investigating myself, to see what I can turn up."

"You'll be going to Sentinel, then?" Cyrus asked.

"I think that's a distinct possibility."

"Then I will come with you." The Redguard's tone had a note of finality in it that was just slightly annoying. It implied he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Dante discouraged. "If you're a wanted man, you might call unwelcome attention to me, and I will need to move quickly and quietly."

"I refuse to sit and wait for your return, like an old man," Cyrus said stubbornly. "Whatever information you learn in Sentinel, I wish to know as well. Especially if it will help prove that I acted in self-defense against a traitor. Besides," he added, with that ghost of a smile, "the roads to Sentinel can be hazardous."

"I can handle myself," Dante assured him, but he could see the resolution in the younger man's face. He had the feeling that even if he attempted to sneak away in the middle of the night, Cyrus would be camped out on his doorstep waiting for him to make the first move.

 _I had the same fire, not too long ago,_ he thought. _I wanted to make all of House Montrose pay for their treachery. I still do._

"Fine," he sighed, knowing it was a foregone conclusion. "We'll leave at daybreak tomorrow. Go get some sleep."

It was at the top of his mind to slip out the window as soon as the door closed behind the young Redguard. The only thing that stopped him was that conversation he had had with Cyrus earlier about manners.

 _When did I start worrying about manners and honor?_ he groused to himself, but he knew the answer. _When I began traveling with the Dragonborn._

* * *

 _The wind whipped the sand and ash into his face, and he choked. He was in Solstheim again, with no recollection of how he'd gotten there. He was riding Odahviing. But that couldn't be right. The red dragon had adamantly refused to go where the air was too foul to breathe; Durnehviir had warned him. Yet here he was, carrying the Dragonborn towards the Red Mountain._

" _What are we doing here?" he called out, but the dragon did not respond. "Odahviing! Answer me! Why are we here?" Still no reply as the fiery summit loomed closer. The ash and choking smoke made it hard to breathe. Cinders began to fall all around him, some even landing on his draconian companion, but the_ dovah _never flinched._

 _He tried to use his_ thu'um, _but the rawness of his throat made it impossible. A bare whisper emitted, as the smoldering embers caught the back of his mouth. He had to get out of here! Odahviing seemed bound and determined to fly them right down the throat of Vvardenfell._

 _Peering over the side of the dragon, he could see it was a long way down to the sea below, but he had to try. He clawed his way to an upright position, but his feet seemed to sink into the_ dovah's _scaly hide, tangling and gripping him, holding him fast. He couldn't move, and the flaming mountain loomed closer…_

* * *

Waking wasn't any better than the nightmare. For a few precious moments, Marcus thought he was still in his dream. Struggling to get to his feet, tangled in the blanket that had been thrown over him, he could still hear the roar of the wind and taste the burnt air. But it wasn't a dream…it was real.

With horror, he realized the cottage was on fire! A thick pall of smoke hung in the air, and he could hear flames crackling through the thatch overhead.

" _NONNA!"_ he cried. Coughing, he made his way to the ladder that led up to the loft and scrambled up, feeling the temperature of the air around him rising along with him. Peering over the edge he saw the entire roof was engulfed, and the flames were licking at the bed in which the old woman lay, unconscious, overcome by the smoke.

Crawling on the floor to her side he reached up and dragged her off the bed. The nightgown by her legs was smoldering, and he grabbed the rug off the floor and smothered them. Nonna groaned, but didn't open her eyes.

There wasn't room for him to stand upright here, and he risked singeing his hair if he made an attempt, so he had to drag her unceremoniously across the floor to the ladder. He climbed down several steps until his chest was level with the floor so he could haul Clarice over his shoulder.

With a _whoosh_ , and a wave of heat, a clump of thatch landed on the bed, setting it alight. Clamping down on the panic he felt, Marcus steadied himself and negotiated the ladder one-handed, half-turned away from it to be able to balance the old Breton nurse over his shoulder. He made it to the floor below, nearly slipping only once, and gently lowered his burden.

The smoke was thicker, now, and his eyes streamed as he crossed to the door to open it. It didn't budge. Glancing down, he saw the stone Nonna used to keep it shut against intruders and viciously kicked it away, yanking on the handle again. Still, the door remained closed.

 _What's going on?_ he thought irritably. _The door opens inward. Why won't it open?_

He crossed the room to the back door and found it, too, had been sealed shut somehow.

Nonna groaned again and stirred. Marcus had to drop on all fours to get back to her. The heat was becoming intense, and the smoke was making it hard to breathe.

"Nonna!" he rasped. "Clarice! Can you hear me?"

She moaned again, but opened her eyes.

"Nonna!" he urged. "The doors are blocked. We can't get out. Is there another way?" He was fully prepared to blast the door down with his Unrelenting Force if she'd said 'no.'

"Cellar," she croaked, gesturing vaguely towards the center of the room.

Quickly, knowing they were running out of time, Marcus crawled to the middle of the cottage, with Clarice right behind him, and flipped back the rug in the center of the room, revealing a trap door to the root cellar. Something in the loft crashed, and a shower of sparks rained down around them. Marcus threw himself over the older woman to protect her.

"We'll die down there," Marcus grated, shaking his head. "We'd be overcome by the heat and smoke."

"Better down there than up here," Nonna said, her voice choked from smoke and emotion. Her home of over thirty years was burning down around her as she watched. She summoned the pinkish-peachy gold glow of healing magic and suffused them both with it. Marcus suddenly felt quite a bit better, and Clarice's burns healed in front of his eyes.

Throwing back the cellar hatch, the Breton nurse preceded him down the ladder, and he followed as quickly as he could. He hadn't quite closed the hatch when something heavy thudded against it, slamming it shut. The force made him miss a step on the ladder, and he fumbled his way the last few feet to the floor.

"There's no getting out that way," he muttered. "We'll have to wait for someone to rescue us."

"No one will be looking for us," Clarice replied, shaking her head. "That fire was set deliberately. I'd stake my last bottle of Cyrodiilic Brandy on it."

"Was that upstairs?" he inquired, mustering a smile.

Her face fell. "Yes," she said sadly. "It was. Anyway, we're not dead yet, and I still have a trick or two up my sleeve."

She fired off a Candlelight spell and led him a short distance around a pile of miscellaneous clutter in the center of the small root cellar to a bookcase against the stone foundation. Over their heads, the rest of the cottage seemed to be caving in. Loud, resounding 'booms' could be heard thudding against the floor. Looking up, Marcus noticed the ceiling was made of stone, an underlayer to the wooden one above it, now being engulfed by the fire. They would have a few more minutes before the heat began to bake them like an oven.

Nonna reached above to the top shelf of the unit and fumbled for something, tsk-ing in frustration.

"That's the problem with tall shelves and short women," she groused.

"Let me," Marcus offered. He peered above the top shelf and found the switch Nonna was feeling for, and pressed it. The shelf slid silently to one side, revealing an opening.

"Did this come with the house?" Marcus marveled, in spite of their situation.

"No," Nonna replied. "I had it installed years ago. I needed a way out, if it became necessary."

There was something in the way she spoke that made Marcus think there was more to her than met the eye. The level of caution she had taken over the years belied a fear of the Emperor or House Montrose finding out her location.

They stepped into the tunnel behind the bookshelf, which slid back to hide the entrance once they were through. Nonna squeezed around Marcus to lead the way down the hewn passage as it twisted and turned, and sloped ever so gently downhill.

The noise and smoke from Nonna's house faded as they continued, but neither spoke much as they hurried along.

"Where does this come out?" Marcus finally asked.

"Somewhere north of the city," Nonna replied. "We have to pass through a section of the sewers. Rats will be the least of our worries."

The Dragonborn considered this. "There's something else down here?" he queried.

"I haven't been down here in a long time, Marcus," Nonna said, "but the last time I escaped Wayrest, it was during the Corsair invasion, seventeen years ago. Master Dante and I had to come through here. Part of the sewers are close to the cemetery. There were ghouls, then." Her face was grim, in the pale light of her spell.

Marcus said nothing, but sent out his Aura Whisper ahead of them. Only vermin showed up, too far away to be a threat.

"What did you say?" Nonna asked.

"Just checking the wildlife," he muttered.

Moving quickly was difficult. The tunnel was only about five feet tall and three feet wide. Marcus had to continually crouch as they moved along. Even Clarice, as small as she was, still had to keep her head low, in order not to bang it against the ceiling. Every time her spell faded, Nonna fired off another Candlelight.

They had been creeping along for almost half an hour when the old Breton woman stopped.

"Problem?" Marcus asked softly.

Nonna shook her head, settling herself down on the packed earth. "I just need to catch my breath," she said. "I'm not as young as I was when I last came through here." Marcus nodded and seated himself across from her.

A steady dripping sound came from somewhere up ahead, along with a strong whiff of methane.

"The sewers must be close," Marcus remarked, and the old woman nodded.

"It won't be pleasant," she observed.

"I've been in worse places," Marcus assured her. "If something comes at us, though, I repeat my previous directive: stay behind me."

"I can handle myself, young man," Clarice frowned.

"I'm sure of it," he concurred, "but if I have to use one of my Shouts, I don't want to catch you in it."

Nonna's eyes widened and she closed her mouth. "Oh," she finally said. "Well, that makes sense, then." She was silent for a moment, then added, "Thank you, by the way, for saving my life, young Marcus."

"I'm glad I woke up in time," he said lightly, "or we both might have died."

Marcus noticed that Clarice was shivering, but whether from the dampness of the tunnel or reaction to their narrow escape, he couldn't tell.

"I can only assume it must have been someone from House Montrose," Clarice mused. "I never thought they'd stoop to arson to silence a witness."

"I'm sorry my inquiries led them to you," Marcus apologized humbly. "I never intended for anyone to get hurt."

"Oh, don't feel so bad, Marcus," Nonna soothed. "I'm surprised I got away with it as long as I did. I always figured that someone, someday, would catch up to me."

It was a cryptic remark to make, Marcus thought, and the wheels in his head were beginning to turn, and put the clues together. "How is it that you escaped detection all these years, then?" Marcus asked lightly. "I mean, that's pretty impressive, hiding in plain sight like that."

"Time changes you," she shrugged. "I'm not as young now as I was then. I look different now. And while I hid, a few disguises, a few illusion spells, were all I really needed to throw them off my trail. My enemies might have had wealth and power, but I had guile and intelligence."

"You're more than just a wet nurse, aren't you?" Marcus asked shrewdly.

Clarice grinned. "It took you this long to figure it out?" she chuckled, this time in genuine delight. But the amusement was short-lived, as she soon sobered.

"I grew up in Storm Talon Temple," she admitted. "It was the Stronghold of the Blades here in High Rock. My mother and father were Blades. So was I, when I came of age."

Marcus nodded in comprehension, and murmured, "That makes a lot of sense now, actually."

Nonna made a sound of agreement. "It should. The Temple was my home for many years. Its location is a closely-guarded secret, even today. The Thalmor never found it."

"That's not what I read in _The Rise and Fall of the Blades,"_ Marcus countered. "The author said the Thalmor found all of the Blades' Strongholds. It even says your Temple is east of here."

"They found what we _allowed_ them to find," Clarice replied, shaking her head. "Most of us were… _are_ …Bretons, and we are _very_ good at magic. When we saw what the Dominion was doing, leading up to the Great War, we pulled out of our Temple and went underground. We hid the entrances with the strongest magicks we knew. We even called upon some of the Old Magic, which several of our members could tap into." She met Marcus' eyes steadily. "I can't speak for the other Blades across Tamriel, but they never conquered _us_. They only _thought_ they did."

Marcus felt a thrill deep inside. It gave him hope that the Alliance could still defeat the Dominion, knowing there was an entire Temple of Blades that might be persuaded to help.

"When I was eighteen," Clarice continued, "I accompanied my parents to Cyrodiil, to the Imperial City. They had a special assignment for me. I was to become the bodyguard to the Princess Lucinda, who at the time was three years my junior. The Princess chafed at the restrictions laid upon her by her position. But her father, the Emperor, refused to allow her to go anywhere in the city without a contingent of guards along for the ride." She sighed. "We…didn't get along at first. The Princess was…very headstrong, and insisted on having things her way."

She paused for a moment in her narrative, and stared into the darkness, seeing back into the shadows of the past. "One day, while we were out riding, bandits sprang upon us in surprise, killing the two Penitus Occulatus guards with us. I'm sure they thought I was a mere lady-in-waiting, which was what we all wanted people to think. When the bandits attempted to pull the Princess off her horse, I rode him down with mine. Blaze was a trained war horse, and knew exactly what to do. When I leaped off his back to deal with the immediate threat, he charged the two hiding among the bushes along the side of the road, aiming at me with their bows. I made short work of the two who had stepped out to confront us. Blaze made short work of the other two."

"I wish I could have seen that!" Marcus exclaimed.

Nonna smiled. "That was over thirty years ago. I doubt you were even alive then. Anyway, after that, the Princess trusted me implicitly. We became fast friends, but I never forgot my place or my duty: to protect her. I failed, at the end."

"You didn't fail," Marcus felt obliged to point out. "You couldn't stop her from falling in love with someone she couldn't have."

Nonna shrugged. "No, I suppose not. And though I had had many years of training in Restoration magic, I couldn't save her from dying during childbirth."

"Again, that's not your fault," Marcus insisted. "There are a lot of things that could have complicated her ordeal. Maybe she had high blood pressure, or a different blood type from her son. She might have had an infection, or a pulmonary embolism. Anything could have happened."

Nonna stared at him. "Are you also a Healer? Most people wouldn't know of those sorts of complications."

"Um…no…" Marcus fumbled. _Damn it!_ Once again, he had gotten carried away with his knowledge of another, more technologically-oriented world than Tamriel. It was too easy to forget he hadn't been born here. "My wife…uh…she's very good at Restoration, and…um…she's helped bring several babies into the world," he finished lamely.

The old Breton nurse eyed him warily. "If you say so," she replied, guardedly. "We should get moving." She struggled to her feet, but Marcus was already up, extending his hand. She took it gratefully and smiled, patting his hand. "Thank you again, young Dragonborn," she beamed.

In a few minutes, they were on the move once more. He sent out his Aura Whisper again, and this time several larger blobs of red emerged.

"We've got company ahead," he told her. "A half dozen or so man-sized figures in a group, headed this way, single file, somewhere up ahead and to our left."

"Probably ghouls, if we're lucky," Nonna whispered.

"And if we're not?" he asked quietly.

"Could be necromancers," she offered, flexing her fingers. "Oh, I wish I could have saved my staff! How far away do you make them out to be?" It was a testament to her faith in him, he thought, that she didn't ask how he knew they were there.

"Hard to say, if the tunnels twist and turn," he replied. "I don't know the layout under here, but probably a hundred yards or so."

Nonna nodded. "There's a central chamber just up ahead, about twenty feet or so, around the corner to our left. If they're where I think they are, their tunnel will open into it like this one does. That's the best place to confront them, if they're hostile."

"Do you generally run into things in sewers that _aren't_ hostile?" he smirked.

Clarice chuckled. "Not in my experience," she admitted. "One last thing: _don't_ use fire down here. That would be very bad."

Marcus had already decided against that option. The methane was strong here, making his eyes sting. Fire would result in a conflagration neither of them wanted.

The open chamber they entered had a criss-cross of stone bridges over the main channel that sent effluence out from the city into the Iliac Bay. A perimeter walkway encircled the chamber, with five other tunnels besides theirs opening into the sewer main. The stench here was nauseating, but neither the Dragonborn nor the old Blade wanted an enemy behind them. They saw an old barrel against the wall, and Clarice took up her position behind it, while Marcus remained in the center of the cistern.

In a few moments, the shapes shambled into the room. They might have been human once. It was hard to say. Rotted flesh hung from their frames, but their eyes burned an eerie green. Their mouths were slack, open maws with sharp teeth, and they gibbered excitedly to each other. They had no noses, but slits instead, which still quivered as they bobbed their heads, searching for the scent of living flesh. Their upper torsos were muscled and sinewy, in spite of the fact they had been long dead. Their elongated hands ended in grasping claws, encrusted with refuse and excrement, and Marcus made a mental note to himself not to get scratched, if he could help it. They looked like shambling disease-carriers, if he had ever seen one.

Behind them, still lurking in the tunnel from which they'd emerged, was another, shadowy figure. It was too dark, however, to make out any details.

Remembering Nonna's advice against fire, he opted for frost instead, as he drew Dragonbane and an ebony dagger.

" _FO KRAH DIIN!"_ he bellowed as they spilled into the chamber. The _thu'um_ hit the first two or three as they rushed towards him, and they shuddered and fell off the stone bridge that led up to him. With horror, Marcus realized it hadn't stopped them. Indeed, they seemed to be moving at a faster pace! The creatures scrambled to the side of the cistern with horrific speed and rushed towards him again.

"I forgot about that!" Clarice called apologetically. "Cold spells make them move faster."

"Thanks for telling me!" Marcus snapped irritably. He launched into his familiar two-weapon style of fighting, with Dragonbane in his right hand, and the dagger in his left. The next ghoul who came at him was sliced nearly in two, and toppled into the effluence below. From the corner of his eye he saw the last two head towards Nonna, but he couldn't help her, because the three he had attempted to freeze were coming at him from three different directions.

Slashing to his right, he caught the first one across the chest, but it didn't stop the creature. The ghoul coming up behind him grabbed the pauldrons on his armor and attempted to drag him backwards. Marcus tucked and flipped forward, sending the ghoul over his head and into the one coming up from ahead.

The one on his right lashed out, and Marcus leaned to the left to avoid the hit, teetering dangerously on the edge of the stone bridge. He used the momentum of the almost-fall to jump to the cross-bridge and turned to face the ghoul, putting himself between it and Clarice. He now had one facing him, and two scrambling to their feet to his left.

A flash and a bang from behind told him Nonna was using lightning against the two coming at her.

"Isn't that just as dangerous as flame?" he yelled back to her.

"Not if you use it properly," was her prim answer. "Besides, I don't have any other weapons to use! We left in rather a hurry." Another flash, and a whiff of ozone, and Marcus heard her mutter with satisfaction, "That takes care of you two!"

From the tunnel opposite them, a voice called out something in a language neither understood, and the bodies of the two Clarice had taken out rose from the cistern and shambled to the edge of the walkway, pulling themselves up.

A moment to one side caught Marcus' eye as he prepared to face the ghouls still lumbering towards him. A figure cloaked in darkness emerged from a portal that had not been there a moment ago.

"Necromancer!" Clarice called out. "I'll take care of them. You handle the ghouls!" She dodged one of the undead creatures that had made a grab for her and headed towards the tunnel where the shadowy figure lurked.

 _We need help,_ Marcus thought. _We're getting outnumbered._ Taking a deep breath, he bellowed, _"Hun Kaal!"_

The cistern reverberated with the warping sound of a portal opening, and a glowing, translucent figure in the leather and fur robes of a Greybeard stepped through.

" _I answer the call of the Dragonborn,"_ Felldir the Old announced. _"How may I assist you, Marcus?"_

"We've got undead," Marcus called. "Too many for Clarice and I. We need a hand."

Felldir chuckled. _"I know how to handle undead,"_ he grinned. Taking a stance, he began a series of complicated gestures as the ghouls, seeing a new target, shambled towards him. Speaking in a low, clear voice, Felldir recited a simple incantation and made a final gesture. The effect was as dramatic as it was satisfying. The ghouls closest to the Greybeard Hero vanished in a puff of noxious vapor. Those further away turned tail and ran back down the tunnel from which they had emerged.

"No!" a voice exclaimed in dismay. It was a female voice.

"I've got her!" Clarice called, chasing after retreating footsteps down the tunnel. Marcus wanted to go after the old Breton nurse – after all, she didn't even have a dagger to defend herself – but there was a more immediate danger here in this chamber.

 _ **I cannot be turned by your simple parlor tricks, old man,**_ the shadowy figure across the cistern leered to Felldir. _**You will die as a tribute to my lord, Molag Bal.**_

"Crap!" Marcus bit out. "She summoned a demon?"

" _He is not of this realm, Marcus,"_ Felldir insisted. _"He does not belong in Mundus. Kill him here, and his essence will be returned to Coldharbour."_

 _ **You are welcome to try, puny mortals,**_ the demon sneered. It opened its maw and roared out a vapor that left Marcus feeling as weak as a kitten. He dropped to his knees. Felldir remained standing, and put himself between the demon and the Dragonborn. He drew his greatsword, an ancient work of finest Nord craftsmanship, slung at his back. The demon's face twisted in surprise.

 _ **That blade…I know it,**_ the beast grunted. _**But that is not possible. Coldfyre was lost ages ago!**_

" _Lost, perhaps,"_ Felldir admitted with a wicked grin, _"but not destroyed. They say 'you can't take it with you.' They were wrong."_

A shriek from down the tunnel told Marcus that Clarice had taken care of the necromancer who had summoned the demon and the undead – and he really wanted to hear that story later. The demon shuddered, but refused to give up its grip on the mortal plane. Lunging forward, it took a swipe at the figure of the old Greybeard, attempting to knock it off the stone bridge and into the wall of the cistern.

Felldir ducked and countered with a swipe from the greatsword, Coldfyre. Blue flames lit up along the length of the blade as it connected with the demon, who howled in pain.

Marcus felt the strength returning swiftly to his body and scrambled to his feet, raising Dragonbane once more. With Felldir in front of him he couldn't reach the demon to attack. Instead, he turned to the perimeter walkway around the edge of the room twenty feet away.

" _Wuld!"_ he Shouted, and raced through the intervening space too fast to fall into the water below. Now he was behind the creature and saw Clarice emerging from the tunnel across the way. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.

The demon roared out another blast of its weakening vapor, and once more Felldir stood firm.

" _By all means, yell all you want,"_ he invited calmly. _"I am not of this realm. You cannot affect me."_

 _ **But I can hurt these others,**_ the demon smiled cruelly. Its next word was one none in the room could interpret, as it was in a language none of them knew. Searing pain lanced through Marcus, and he saw Clarice fall to the floor, writhing in agony. It felt as though every cell in his body was on fire, and it hurt to breathe.

Felldir lashed out again with Coldfyre, and again the demon screamed. No blood spurted forth from its wounds, no ichor dripped onto the flagstones, but the pain Marcus and Clarice felt lessened somewhat. It was enough for the Dragonborn to raise his Akaviri blade and plunge it into the demon's back. Screeching horribly, with a sound like tearing metal, the demon whirled around and slammed Marcus against the wall, pinning him there.

 _ **I will devour you first!**_ it vowed.

"I don't think so," Clarice said, standing unsteadily, using the wall for support. She held up a crystal in her hand. "Recognize this?"

 _ **NO!**_ the creature bellowed, whipping around to face her. It let Marcus drop to the floor. _**MY PHYLACTERY!**_

"Oh, yes," the old Breton woman said smugly. As the demon lunged across the cistern towards her, she let it fall to the stone walkway and crushed it under her boot. With a blood-curdling howl, the demon was sucked into a vortex that appeared above its head, then vanished as the doorway to Oblivion winked out of existence. Silence descended upon the sewers once more, except for the steady dripping of water from somewhere.

Marcus blew out a breath. "Holy crap!" he muttered. "Uh…sorry for the language, Clarice."

"Quite understandable, Marcus," she laughed shakily. "Who's your friend? Where did he come from?"

" _I am called Felldir, the Old, my lady,"_ the old Greybeard bowed. _"The Dragonborn summoned me to aid him, and I have done so. I will return now to Sovngarde, where I will regale the others with this heroic deed. We will sing your praises until we see you again. Farewell!"_

With that, the ancient First Tongue bowed again and faded away.

"You keep some interesting friends," Clarice observed.

"You don't know the half of it," Marcus chuckled. "But at least we took out a necromancer that won't trouble the people of Wayrest any longer. I'm glad to have you at my back."

"You're not so bad yourself," she approved, a twinkle in her bright blue eyes. "There's certainly more to you than meets the eye, young Dragonborn."

He noticed the Daedric dagger she now sported at her belt and raised an eyebrow. Nonna shrugged.

"That foolish necromancer back there didn't know how to keep herself from being disarmed," she grinned. "Luckily for me!"

"I really want to hear that story," Marcus chuckled.

"Later," the old woman admonished. "Let's get out of here first."

"I'm with you on that," the Dragonborn agreed. "Which way from here?"

The old woman paused to get her bearings. "That way," she said finally, pointing to a tunnel that disappeared off to the right. "It should take us out under the city wall, towards the Bay. I only hope whoever set my house on fire doesn't have anyone watching the sewer exits, or you may need to use that Akaviri blade of yours again."

They traveled in an irregular path, following the tunnel as it twisted and turned under the streets of Wayrest, until at last, Nonna raised her hand and crouched. Marcus followed suit.

"Just around the next turn is an iron grate, set into the city wall," she whispered. "It's overgrown, now, with scrub bushes, so I don't believe it can be seen from the road. But it _is_ very close to the road. If the sun has come up, we may have to sit out the day and wait. Too many people and too many guards will be hovering near the postern gate."

"I came into Wayrest through that gate," Marcus murmured.

"Then you know how busy it can get," she nodded. "If the sun isn't up yet, we may be lucky enough to slip away unseen. Can you do magic?"

Marcus shook his head. "Not well, I'm afraid."

"Well, it can't be helped, I'm afraid," Nonna tsk'd, disappointed. "Let's just keep our heads down and hope no one heard that commotion down here."

They moved forward, closer to the bend in the tunnel. The iron grate was only a few yards ahead, and to their relief, it was still dark beyond it. A faint glow from the lanterns by the gate made it as far as their position, but it was barely enough to notice.

Nonna made a few passes with her hands and released the power within her. A grating, shifting creak of rusty iron moving against itself was briefly heard, as her magic opened the corroded lock, but the sounds of the waves hitting the shore not far away covered the scraping of metal against stone as Marcus pushed the gate open, then closed it behind them.

They kept to the shadows of the trees and bushes, and skirted the perimeter of merchants camping outside the gate. By the time the sun crested over the eastern horizon, they were well away from the city of Wayrest. Nonna turned only once to look back at the place that had been her home for so long. A thin smudge of smoke from the poorer section of town rose lazily into the morning air. She sighed and turned back to the Dragonborn.

"Shall I take you back to Markarth?" Marcus asked. "You'd be safe there."

"No," said the old nurse, making up her mind. "I think I need to take you to some friends of mine, who I'm sure would like very much to meet the person they have sworn to serve and protect all these centuries."

"You mean-?"

Nonna met his eager gaze and smiled. "I'm taking you to Storm Talon Temple."

* * *

Dante had to admit that, as a traveling companion, Cyrus was better than most. The Redguard was comfortable with silence, and didn't feel the need to fill every moment with chatter. They left Hegathe early in the morning, after only a few hours of sleep, and were well on their way to Sentinel by the time the sun began baking the countryside around them.

"We will keep to the road," Cyrus informed him. "It follows the coast, and is safer than trying to cross the Alik'r Desert. It will add a couple of days to our journey, however, but there will be towns along the way where we can stop to rest and resupply. We would not have that in the desert."

"And you're certain this lightweight leather armor will protect me if something attacks us along the way?" Dante asked. He felt exposed without his Nightingale armor, bundled in his pack, and he missed their special enchantments.

"It will protect you well enough," Cyrus shrugged. "It is specially-made by Redguard armorers, who know the hazards of the heat. The cloth panels will allow your body to breathe, and the wind to cool you. It has enough hardened leather to protect you - if you don't provoke a fight with a salamander, that is."

"Is that a possibility?" Dante inquired, lifting an eyebrow. Salamanders, he knew, were similar to the chaurus found in Skyrim, or the siligonders in Elsweyr, except they spewed out a gout of liquid that clung to their victims and ignited into flames upon contact with air. They were feared by many nomadic tribes, and avoided wherever possible.

Cyrus shook his head. "Not along the road," he replied with a slight smile. "They can usually only be found in the desert. Another reason to avoid cutting across it."

They made it as far as Dragon Grove before evening fell, encountering only merchants and other travelers along the way. At one point, a patrol of soldiers with the sigil of the Crown emblazoned on their shields approached, but Cyrus wound his keffiyeh close around his face – he had set aside his helmet for this journey – and kept his head down. The soldiers barely gave them a glance as they waited along the side of the road for the patrol to pass.

"Problem?" Dante murmured.

"I am a wanted man," Cyrus reminded him. "My face may still be known to some. It was why I wore the helmet, but it is too hot to endure it today."

Once the soldiers had gone, they resumed their journey without further interruptions.

Dragon Grove was a smaller town, fortified with a timber-reinforced stone wall. Many of the homes here were also wood and stone construction, with the townspeople making good use of the acacia forest that surrounded the city on three sides. Backed up against the mountains to the east, which separated the city from the Alik'r Desert, Dragon Grove was Crown-held, and its presence was everywhere, represented by the number of soldiers that roamed the streets and the banners that flew from the spires of the buildings.

"We shouldn't stay here long," Cyrus muttered. "Let us find a place to sleep, and be on our way at first light." The man was as tense as a viper ready to strike, and Dante merely nodded, pointing to a nearby sign that indicated an inn.

They obtained the only room left and Dante turned to the common room, intending to get a meal before retiring for the night. Cyrus balked.

"I do not wish to reveal my face here," he hissed.

"Then go to the room," Dante shrugged. "We've got some trail rations there. I'm hungry, and I'm not a wanted man – at least, not here, anyway. I intend to have supper." With that, he turned and left Cyrus to make up his mind on his own.

Fuming for several heartbeats, Cyrus was of a mind to do as Dante suggested, but the spicy aroma of _musakhan_ wafted through the air, and his stomach gurgled. Scowling, he tugged his keffiyeh closer over his face and followed the Breton Guildmaster to the common room.

Later that evening, the two men returned to their room.

"See?" Dante pointed out. "I think you're being unnecessarily paranoid. We had a quiet dinner, good food, and no one noticed us."

"I wouldn't be so certain of that," Cyrus said glumly.

"I would be," the Guildmaster asserted firmly. "I was watching the room. I watched the shadows. I listened to the conversations around us because you are the best kind of dinner companion who doesn't feel the need to talk. No one paid us any attention."

"I think I will take that as the compliment you intended it to be," Cyrus smiled wryly. "And perhaps I am overreacting. But it's that caution that has kept me alive these past six years."

"How can you be so certain you're still being hunted?" Dante asked. "Six years is a long time in the political world. I know."

"We Redguards have long memories," the younger man shrugged. "And Prince Azanir was well known – a war hero. People will remember."

"Who inherited his lands and title?" Dante asked.

"A daughter of the family," Cyrus said. "His cousin, the Princess Nazreen. She was not even born when the Great War raged."

"Young, then," Dante nodded. "Who is the regent? I assume there must be a regent?"

"She has advisors," Cyrus shrugged, "but there is no regent. Princess Nazreen rules her House and her lands herself. She is not yet twenty years of age. Why? What are you thinking?"

Dante turned this over in his mind. Perhaps there might be a way to infiltrate House Tasa through becoming acquainted with Princess Nazreen. The problem was what to do with Cyrus while he did so. The young man, so eager to clear his name, was an albatross around his neck at the moment.

"Nothing, at the moment," he finally said. "Let's sleep on it tonight and get an early start tomorrow. We still have a long way to go, if your map is correct."

"It is," Cyrus said. "Whatever you plan to do, I insist you let me know as soon as you formulate it."

"Oh, trust me," Dante smiled. "You'll be the first to know."

Satisfied, Cyrus rolled over to face the wall and let Dante snuff out the oil lamp. In the darkness, the Grey Fox lay back against his pillow and smiled again. Had his associates in the Thieves' Guild been there to see that smile, they would have known to head somewhere else and pretend to be busy. Cyrus drifted to sleep in blissful ignorance.

* * *

Drelan Suvaris took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Feeling decidedly out of his league, he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other outside the Council Chamber in the High Tower of Baan Malur. The Council of Great Houses had agreed to his petition for a hearing as a representative of his Imperial Majesty Titus Mede the Second, and he couldn't remember feeling this nervous in all his long life.

 _How did I get here?_ he wondered. _What am I doing? I'm a simple thief and forger. I'm not cut out for politics like this!_

And yet, here he was, carrying a letter of introduction to the Council as an ambassador of the Imperial Court, with the intention and purpose of initiating a trade agreement – one he himself had proposed to Titus Mede, knowing the old Emperor would turn it down.

"I'm a horrible liar," he confessed to the old Imperial, when he and Beor and Asha had been outed as not being who they claimed to be.

"Oh, no, I disagree," Titus Mede chortled. "You're a very _good_ liar. Except now you're going to do it for _me."_

The proposal he had presented initially to the Emperor – mining rights in exchange for financial and military support – had been modified slightly in the Empire's favor, but tempting enough to make the Council of Great Houses sit up and take notice. It was the first attempt any could remember of the Empire extending a peace offering to Morrowind to apologize for the lack of support during the Oblivion Crisis. Though that had happened long before Titus Mede had been born, he knew this was a sore spot for the long-lived race of Dunmer, some of whom would still remember the horror of that time. All Drelan had to do was sell the idea. It was the first step on bringing the Empire back together.

 _This has to work,_ he thought, more worried than he could remember being. _The Dominion wants us divided. We need to stand together. If we face them together, we can't fail!_

"Master Suvaris," the Chamberlain announced. "The Council will see you now."

* * *

 _[Author's Note: First of all, I would like to say "kudos" to **msyendor** for figuring out Clarice's past before I announced it. Can't put anything over on you, can I? *grin* Next, thank you all for your patience, loyalty and support. I've had a few troll reviews lately, but I refuse to change my writing style for them. Finally, the next chapter should wrap up this flash-back, and we will be moving up to the "current" time, following Marcus and Tamsyn's adventures in Apocrypha, from "Into the Ashes." The second part of "Into the Light" is titled "For the Glory of the Empire," and will feature the last Great War against the Dominion. With any luck, I'll have finished it BEFORE Bethesda releases TES VI. Keep your fingers crossed!]_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"This is an interesting proposal you bring us, Master Suvaris," Councilor Morvayn mused. "How is it that you have the ear of the Emperor himself?"

"It's…uh…rather a long and uninteresting story, your Grace," Drelan demurred. Not for any amount of money did he want to go into _that!_ He stole a quick glance around the chamber. Each Councilor was seated on a simple high-backed chair of carved cinnabar wood with their House banner suspended behind them. Councilor Morvayne was one of the highest-ranking members of House Redoran, and it was a testament of the Council's faith in his reputation that he had been asked to come to Baan Malur from Raven Rock on Solstheim to chair this meeting.

Tall and lean, sporting a neatly-trimmed goatee, his red hair swept to the left side of his head, Lleril Morvayn's red eyes peered sharply down at Drelan from his seat three steps above. He pulled at the collar of his red robes of state, clearly uncomfortable wearing something so formal.

"Indeed," was all the Councilor said. "Well, the terms seem—"

"The terms are completely unacceptable," interrupted Councilor Beleru Indoril. Her face was impassive, surrounded by the purple veil of her headdress, as she regarded Drelan, standing stiffly within the Council's circle. The purple silk of her robes whispered softly as she leaned forward. "If I am not mistaken," she continued, "you are a member of House Hlaalu, are you not, Master Suvaris?"

"I won't deny that I am," Drelan replied, keeping his voice neutral.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Councilor Morvayne interjected. "He is merely the messenger. The proposal comes from Titus Mede himself."

"Titus Mede and his Empire abandoned us at our hour of greatest peril," Beleru snapped. "And House Hlaalu stood by them. It's why they were removed from this Council."

"Get over it, Beleru," sighed the representative from House Telvanni in a bored tone. "All that happened over two hundred years ago. You act as though it happened yesterday."

"I will not forget how my family – our people – suffered during those times, Neloth!" she fired back. "You might have forgotten, up there in Solstheim, in your mushroom tower, but we here in Morrowind will not forget those dark times, nor the sacrifices that were made. What have _you_ sacrificed, _wizard?"_ The last was said in a decidedly disparaging tone.

"My sanity, listening to you bellyache about something that is over and done with these last two centuries, for one thing," Neloth replied blandly. Long and lean, dressed in his brown and gold Telvanni robes with the red scarf draped indolently around his winged surcoat, the aged wizard sat back in his seat, clearly bored with the entire proceeding. "I came down here at the request of this Council at a most inconvenient time for me. Now, are we going to discuss _current_ events, or are we going to listen to you lecture us on _ancient_ history? Since you clearly experienced it firsthand, I must bow to your expertise on the subject."

"That's enough, Councilors," Morvayn interjected, before Beleru could reply. "I think in this instance, Master Neloth is correct: we should focus on what is happening now. Master Suvaris' family history has no bearing on the decisions we make today."

"I would like to hear the terms again," Councilor Frathen, of House Dres, requested. Short, for a Dunmer, and tending to plumpness, Frathen was robed in the greens of his House, a rather unhealthy blend of moss, field and forest colors.

At a nod from Councilor Morvayn, Drelan lifted the document and read from it once more.

"His Eminence, Titus Mede the Second, extends greetings to the Council of Great Houses of Morrowind, and expresses his desire to rectify the errors of his predecessors in their neglect of diplomatic relations between the Empire and the Province of Morrowind."

"Neglect?" Beleru snorted. "It goes beyond simple 'neglect'!"

"Let the mer finish, Beleru," Morvayn frowned. "Continue, please," he said to Drelan.

"To this end, his Eminence requests a consideration for a trade agreement between our two great Provinces. In return for mining rights within Morrowind, for which the Empire will assume all reasonable expenditures, Morrowind would receive a thirty percent share of the proceeds, after costs, in addition to a pledge of assistance in the form of men and arms, should the need arise."

"Thirty percent doesn't seem like much," Councilor Vilvyni Sadras frowned. Young by Dunmer standards, the petite Head of House wore sky blue silk robes with a deeper blue headdress containing the auburn curls that threatened to escape. Her orange eyes were in stark contrast to her garment.

"Thirty percent of any of the _proceeds_ ," corrected Frathen. _"After_ costs. It's even less than not much."

"The Empire _is_ footing the bill for the expense of mining," Drelan pointed out.

"Like they did for Raven Rock?" Morvayn scowled. "And when they felt there was nothing left to be had, they pulled out and left us high and dry. What is to stop them from doing the same thing this time?"

"If I may," Drelan began, as the other Councilors muttered among themselves, "the Emperor has already considered that point. The East Empire Company is an independent organization that holds its charter from the crown. However, the Emperor would like to encourage Morrowind to charter its own trading company and set their own prices. He feels that some healthy competition is good for everyone."

Surprised murmurs swept around the room.

"And what is to stop the Emperor from subsidizing the EEC, and undercutting the prices we set for our goods?" Neloth asked shrewdly.

Drelan gave a short sigh. "The Emperor is an old man," he replied. "He wishes to solidify his Empire for the next Emperor. A relationship based on trade with other Provinces, that is mutually beneficial to all, will help ease the transition from his rule to the next."

"The Emperor has no heir," Beleru pointed out. "His only child died years ago."

"He is grooming his heir from among his courtiers," Drelan explained, betraying no confidences. "Whoever the next Emperor – or Empress – will be, they will be bound to honor the agreements set into place by Titus Mede." _That should keep them from discovering the Boss's identity too soon,_ he thought with some satisfaction.

"I would be willing to consider this proposal," Councilor Vilvyni said slowly, "but I believe I would be more easily persuaded if Morrowind were to receive _sixty_ percent of the proceeds."

An approving rumble of mutterings ran around the chamber.

" _Sixty?"_ Drelan gawked. "My lords…ladies…that hardly seems fair—"

"We own the rights to our own minerals," Morvayn pointed out.

"But the Empire is absorbing all of the overhead," Drelan protested. "At only forty percent of the proceeds after costs, there would hardly be any profit left. It would hardly be worth the effort. I can't take that counter-proposal back to Emperor Titus Mede. He'd never accept it!"

"What's the _real_ reason for this sudden interest in Morrowind, Master Suvaris?" Neloth inquired loudly.

Silence fell in the chamber.

" _M-muthsera?"_ Drelan stuttered.

"Oh, come now!" the Telvanni wizard snapped. "We're not _all_ fools here," he continued snidely, with a pointed look at Beleru, who simmered and glared at him. "It's been two hundred years since the Oblivion Crisis, and in all that time, the Empire has scarcely said 'boo' to us. Now, as poor, old, Titus Mede nears the end of his pathetically short life, he sends you – a most unlikely messenger – to deliver a trade agreement just tempting enough to get our interest and make us actually consider aligning ourselves once again with the same Empire that turned its back on us. And I have to ask myself, ' _Why?'"_

He stood and towered over Drelan, piercing him with large, orangey-red eyes. "Well? _Why?"_

"I think I know," Morvayn said calmly. "Sit down, Neloth. We know you're intimidating."

The master of Tel Mithryn scowled at him, but did as he was bid.

"It's the Dominion, isn't it?" Morvayn inquired. "Oh, don't bother to deny it. It's been obvious for quite some time that Titus Mede has fretted over his decision to give in to the Dominion's demands after the Great War. He knows that nearly everyone in Tamriel believes it to be a mistake, and he can't bear the thought that he lost the War. He's hoping to bring his Empire back together, to prove that it's just as strong as it was before the Oblivion Crisis. I'm afraid that ship has sailed."

Drelan shook his head. "It goes beyond that, I'm afraid, my lords and ladies. He's concerned about the ongoing threat the Dominion represents."

"Why should we care?" Beleru demanded. "If the Aldmeri Dominion wants to swallow up the Empire, let them. It has nothing to do with Morrowind."

"Begging your pardon, _sera,"_ Drelan ventured, "but I believe it has quite a lot to do with Morrowind, and with all races besides Altmer."

"What do you mean?" Frathen queried.

Drelan took a deep breath before answering. This was territory the Emperor had not covered in his instructions, but something about which Drelan knew quite well, as a member of the Thieves' Guild. And it was time that information was shared with those who stood to lose the most if the enemy succeeded. "The Dominion's ultimate goal is to reclaim their birthright" he announced.

"Birthright? Vilvyni spluttered. _"What_ birthright?"

"They believe that they were not simply _created_ by the gods, but that they are, in fact, gods themselves, cast out of Aetherius by the creation of this world."

Drelan's words hung in the air for several seconds.

"Ridiculous!" Beleru snapped.

"It gets worse," Drelan added. "According to our…sources, the Dominion believes that they can achieve this only by wiping out all other races – men, mer or beast-folk."

"That's absurd!" Neloth disparaged. "We Dunmer had an entire war over this very subject, not so very long ago. Vivec, Almalexia and Sotha Sil all claimed to be our gods. They abused their powers and blew up a mountain as a result! Have the Altmer learned nothing from our mistakes?"

"Absurd or not," Drelan said, "the Dominion intends to wipe out the human and beast races first, using the Argonians and Khajiit as their fodder. The Bosmer will be next, sent against all the resistance thrown at the Dominion. When all the humans, beast-folk and Wood Elves are gone, they will come after us, the Dunmer, until only they are left." He paused before taking a deep breath and continuing, "This is a very real threat that cannot and should not be ignored. Our very existence depends on it."

Silence reigned in the Chamber for a long moment before Councilor Morvayn spoke.

"Master Suvaris, let me ask you this: is this trade agreement a genuine offer, or is it a ploy to bring us back into the Empire, to bolster her ranks against the Dominion?"

"It's a genuine offer," the Dunmer thief replied truthfully. "Though his Eminence _was_ hoping to lay some groundwork for better relations later. I just don't know how much 'later' we have."

Morvayn nodded thoughtfully. "I see." He looked around the Chamber at the four other Heads of House. "Well, my friends, it would seem we have much to discuss."

* * *

Reydin Glane studied the cottage from the vantage point of the branches of the graht-oak twenty yards away. It had taken him almost seven months to track down each and every rumor, report, fireside story and fairy-tale before finally discovering the location of this small, stone, one-room cottage in the middle of the vast Elder Forest of central Valenwood. Many of the trees here were ambulatory, including the one in which he perched, and he had no idea when it would decide to get up and move.

The door of the cottage opened, and an older Bosmer male came out with a bucket and walked to a nearby stream to pull up some fresh water. Reydin couldn't make out anything inside the cottage from this distance.

The tree shuddered, and Reydin knew it was time to move. He slipped down the trunk quickly and glided silently to the door of the cottage, blending in with the shadows as he entered the small domicile. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the light before moving any further. As he did so, a small child, sitting by the fire saw him and screamed.

 _Crap!_ he thought.

Leaping across the intervening space, he reached the child to shush her just as the older mer burst through the door.

" _Falisa!"_ he shouted, drawing his sword. "Leave her alone," he warned, "or I'll cut you so fine you'll fertilize the forest for years!"

"I'm not going to hurt her," Reydin said, pushing his mask back, revealing his face. "I came to talk."

Falisa was still screaming, and Reydin realized he was holding her shoulder gently. He let her go, and the child scurried behind her guardian and whimpered.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," Reydin smiled kindly. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Who are you?" the older mer demanded. He kept his sword poised and ready, and from his stance, Reydin could tell he was a mer who knew how to use it. "What do you want from us? If you're a thief, you'll be disappointed. We have nothing of value here."

 _I can see that,_ Reydin thought obliquely.

"My name is Reydin Glane," the Nightingale replied. "And I _am_ a thief, as it happens, but I'm not here to steal anything – unless it's a prize right out from under the noses of the Thalmor."

The older mer stiffened, and his manner grew tense. "What do you know about the Thalmor?" he growled.

"Quite a bit more than most, I think," Reydin said. "I know they're looking for the rightful King of Valenwood. My sources say that may be you."

"I think your sources are wrong," came the reply.

"You're Garvar, aren't you?" Reydin pressed.

There was a pause. "Y-yes," the mer admitted slowly. "I am."

"Then you're the one I'm looking for," Reydin said calmly. "You're also the one the Thalmor are looking for. I'm lucky I found you first."

"What do you want with me?" Garvar asked, though a lot of the gruffness had gone from his tone. It was as though he had given up and accepted his fate.

"I need to get you out of Valenwood as quickly as I can," the Nightingale replied. "We don't have much time. I might be three steps ahead of the Dominion, but they have a tendency to catch up quickly. Do you have someone you can leave the child with?"

"Leave me?" Falisa wailed. "Don't leave me, Garvar! You promised you wouldn't!"

"Falisa stays with me," Prince Garvar said. "She's a foundling I picked up, and I'm very fond of her. I won't leave her behind."

"She'll slow us down," Reydin warned.

"No, I won't! I promise!" Falisa cried, making the sign of Mara on her chest. "I can run really fast! Please don't leave me behind!"

"It's not even an option," Prince Garvar said firmly. "She comes with me."

Reydin sighed. "Okay, but it's going to be difficult to smuggle both of you out of Valenwood."

The Prince smiled. "I'm sure you'll figure something out. Do we leave now, or in the morning?"

"I wanna go now!" Falisa exclaimed. "If bad people are chasing us, I don't wanna stay here."

"I actually agree with her," Reydin said. "Gather what you can't live without and let's get moving. We have a long way to go."

As the Prince hurried to throw their meager belongings into a couple of burlap sacks, the child, Falisa came up to him, no longer scared or shy.

"What kind of armor is that?" the child interrupted. Her delicately tapered ears poked out of a mass of curly brown hair that fought against the braids attempting to keep it tidy, and her large green eyes reminded him of moss-lined pools. The smock she wore over her underdress was worn, but neat and clean, and sandals that were just a bit too small were strapped to her feet.

"It's a special kind," Reydin smiled. Gods, she was cute! Just about the age his Mirian would be, if she were still alive. "It allows me to hide in shadows and be very quiet."

The child smiled. "I want to be quiet and sneaky, too! Can I be sneaky, Garvar?"

"I'm going to insist on it, Falisa," the Prince smiled fondly. "You'll have to prove how silent you can be, by not talking very much." He gave Reydin a wink over the child's head as he worked, and Falisa nodded her head soberly.

"I can be really quiet!" she announced. "Just like when those bad elves were looking for us in Falinesti!"

"That's exactly how quiet you'll have to be," Prince Garvar told her earnestly. "Now, go get your special things and put them in this bag." As she hurried to do his bidding, he murmured to Reydin, "She really was as good as gold then. I was proud of her!"

"How old is she?" the Nightingale asked.

"Six," the Prince replied, and Reydin felt something tighten in his throat. Mirian would have been six this year. Her sister Tanda would have been ten.

"I…had a daughter her age…not long ago," Reydin said quietly, not sure why he felt the need to reveal that much about himself.

"What happened?" the Prince asked with sympathy. "If you don't mind my asking, that is."

"Everglen," was Reydin's short answer, and the Prince's eyes widened.

Everyone had heard about Everglen. A small settlement of homes built into the trees by Greensingers, located north of Woodhearth, Everglen had been the anonymous headquarters of the Greenhand, a resistance group fighting against Dominion control and Thalmor occupation in Valenwood. Many of its residents were unaware of the organization's presence in their village, including Reydin's wife Thyra, and their two daughters. But somehow, through investigation, bribery or betrayal – or a combination of all three – the Thalmor found out about the group's activities spawning from Everglen, and in one night of horror, burned the entire village to the ground. Those who tried to escape were shot down by Dominion archers. Hundreds of Bosmer were killed, and scores of trees were destroyed in a single, wanton act of vengeance. They only allowed a handful to flee, to spread the story of the consequences of conspiring against the Dominion. Reydin had not been at home when it happened; he had been conducting business in Cyrodiil.

"I'm sorry," the Prince said quietly. "I truly am. It was a horrible thing to hear about."

"We need to get moving," Reydin said now, pushing the nightmare from his mind. "I'm taking you both to Southpoint. There's a ship there that will take us directly to the Imperial City in Cyrodiil."

"Cyrodiil?" the Prince exclaimed. "That's a viper's-nest of Dominion operatives! How will Falisa and I be safe there?"

"It's also a cosmopolitan melting pot," Reydin pointed out. "There are many races in the Imperial City. My own presence there barely raises an eyebrow. You'll be safe, I promise. Now, let's go!"

* * *

Sentinel was a large, walled city situated on the northwestern coast of Hammerfell, on the Iliac Bay. A bustling port, thousands of people crowded her streets and docks, conducting their businesses and living their lives under the blazing sun. Like Hegathe on a much grander scale, Sentinel boasted massive walls of stone, towers capped with gilded minarets, and open-air plaza markets where merchants hawked their wares. At either end of the city, both north and south, were the largest of the stone and plaster buildings which Cyrus told Dante were the seats of the ruling factions of the Province.

"The Crown use the north tower, and the Forebears use the south," he said. "Order is kept by soldiers from both parties. Right now, the Crown holds sway, and they make the laws. The Forebears seem less interested in ruling, and more interested in establishing trade and commerce with the rest of Tamriel. They have adopted many of the customs and traditions of Cyrodiil, High Rock, even Skyrim. The Crown are traditionally of the old nobility class from Yokuda, and wants us all to keep to the old ways of the Na-Totambu and the lifestyles we led in our old homeland. The Forebears do not believe this to be practical any longer."

"And you?" Dante asked. "How do you feel? You're a member of the Crown – or were, aren't you?"

"Yes," Cyrus agreed, "but I have travelled enough to realize how insular and unpractical the ideals of the Crown are. It was not an easy conversion for me, but now I feel the Forebears have the right idea."

"I suppose I should have asked this before we left Hegathe," Dante murmured, frowning, "but if we're to clear your name, shouldn't we have headed for Taneth, rather than here? You said Azanir was a Prince of Taneth."

"He was, but he was visiting in Sentinel when…when things happened," Cyrus said in hushed tones.

"That still doesn't help," Dante countered. "Any evidence of his involvement in the fall of the city would be at his palace."

Cyrus winced. "I didn't think of that."

"We've spent four days on the road to get here," Dante simmered quietly. "In that time, we could have gotten to Taneth!"

"I'm sorry!" Cyrus protested. "I thought if we came here, you could petition the Crown for a hearing, to call for justice."

"And exactly how am I supposed to do that without evidence?" the Grey Fox demanded.

Cyrus hung his head. "I have failed."

He looked so upset that Dante relented – but only a little.

"There's nothing we can do about it now," he said roughly. "Is there a library here in Sentinel?"

"A library?"

"Yes, a library," Dante insisted. "A place of records, maps, books, that sort of thing."

"The Hall of Records!" Cyrus exclaimed. "Yes! You would find that at the Crown's Tower."

Dante nodded. "Alright, here's what we'll do: you get us a room over there at that inn. I'll head to the Tower and see what I can dig up regarding the battle at Taneth. It might give us some clues as to where to start looking for proof of your innocence. And I have other business at the Tower, as well, so the trip here isn't completely wasted. I'll see you this evening. Stay out of sight, and try not to get into any trouble."

Cyrus opened his mouth as if he would argue, but closed it instead and nodded, before heading over to the inn to secure a room for the night.

Dante made his way through the crowded streets until he found an alley he could duck into. Testing doors along the way, he found one unlocked and slipped inside, unseen. It appeared to be a back storage room of some sort of textile merchant, as the shelves were loaded with bolts of silks, satins, brocades and broadcloth. His expert eyes quickly valuated the fabrics and he made a mental note to try and come back here to arrange a trade deal. However, business must come _after_ diplomacy.

Slipping the pack off his back he quickly pulled off the Redguard clothing and donned his official robes as Emissary to Emperor Titus Mede the Second. The Hammerfell garb was stuffed into the enchanted pack, which held a bit more than one would think from a casual look. Found in Rockmilk Cave, between Leyawiin and Bravil, when he first became a thief, he quickly realized the dusty, careworn backpack was probably the most valuable, yet overlooked, piece of the haul. When he claimed it for his own, the Guildmaster said nothing, but gave him a knowing smile.

"Nice haversack," was all he said. "May it serve you well." And it had, through fifteen years and many adventures. It contained three pouches, two smaller ones on either side of the main compartment, and each had been enchanted to hold at least three times its apparent volume. In addition, it never weighed more than about five pounds.

Fully dressed now as befit a member of the Imperial Court in Cyrodiil, Dante made sure his identification papers and orders were secured in the inner pocket of his surcoat and slipped quietly out the back door and into the alley once more. He merged into the flow of people in the streets and continued on his way up to the Crown's Tower.

The guard at the gate said nothing other than to ask him to state his business.

"I am here at the request of His Imperial Majesty, Titus Mede the Second," Dante declared, showing his papers. "I wish to speak with Malik Vhosek."

The Redguard perused the papers, then handed them back with a slight bow. "You may enter, Councilor de Fer. Welcome to Sentinel!"

In the great hall of the Tower he was required to repeat the ritual, only this time his papers were kept to give to the Malik of the Crown, Vhosek. A Malik, he knew, was about as high in Redguard royalty as it was possible to get, short of being declared High King, which Hammerfell had not had since the Second Era.

The guard announced him, and he entered the great hall.

"Welcome, Councilor de Fer," Malik Vhosek greeted him, as he stepped forward. There was a wariness in the man's eyes, and little welcome in his voice, despite his words. Malik Vhosek regarded him suspiciously through serious brown eyes.

"I must admit to some surprise, seeing you here," he continued. "I was unaware you planned to visit our fair city. I trust the Emperor is well?"

"His Eminence is quite well," Dante bowed. "Thank you for inquiring."

"To what do we owe this singular honor?" Vhosek queried. "I believe the last time I spoke with Titus Mede, he was giving my lands away."

 _Nope,_ Dante thought privately, _they haven't forgotten, and they haven't forgiven._

"My Emperor desires to make amends for the errors of the past," Dante stated. "As I'm sure you must be aware, the Dominion is putting more and more pressure on Cyrodiil and the rest of the Empire—"

"I believe you mean, 'what's _left_ of the Empire,'" Malik Vhosek interrupted, eliciting a wave of sniggering from the courtiers surrounding them.

Dante smiled urbanely. He refused to rise to the bait. "As you say, your Grace," Dante replied, bowing once more. "The Dominion is preparing for another Great War – according to them, the _last_ Great War against humanity, and all who are not Altmer. His Eminence feels this is the time we should all band together—"

"Why?" one of the other courtiers demanded.

Malik Vhosek waved a hand towards the woman. "Timara Yaeli," he introduced. Dante knew, from his time at the Imperial Court, that a Timar or Timara was equivalent to a Lord or Lady from Cyrodiil.

"My Lady." He bowed in her direction. "You ask a very good question. 'Why?' Why should Hammerfell come to the aid of the Empire, when that Empire abandoned you all so cruelly to your fate during the Great War? Why should Hammerfell lift a finger to assist an Emperor who willingly gave away your own lands to appease the insatiable hunger of the Aldmeri Dominion?"

"I suppose you're going to tell us?" Malik Vhosek drawled, already bored with the conversation. The courtiers sniggered again.

"It's because this time the Dominion will not stop until they have wiped all of us off the face of Nirn," Dante said. "We have come into possession of some of the Dominion's plans, some of which they have enacted, and others which have not yet been put in place. Fact: the Aldmeri Dominion systematically hunted down all the members of the organization known as the Blades, who were the protectors of the Septim Emperors."

"Titus Mede is not a Septim," Timara Yaeli pointed out.

"No," Dante conceded, "but even though the Penitus Occulatus now guard the Emperor, the Blades took it upon themselves to guard Tamriel against the threat they knew the Dominion to be. It cost them dearly."

"There are no Blades any longer," Vhosek said. "The Dominion wiped them out. What has that to do with us, and the current situation?"

"I'm leading up to that, your Grace," Dante smiled, "if I may beg your patience a bit longer?"

Vhosek rolled his eyes but nodded for the Breton man to continue.

"So," Dante went on, moving around the hall as he spoke, "the Dominion wipes out the Blades, then gives their ultimatum to the Emperor, who was a much younger man, then. The desire to prove himself a strong leader burned brightly in him. He rejects the terms and the Dominion launches their war. Four years and thousands of lives later, Emperor Titus Mede concedes defeat to preserve what's left of his Empire, as you so eloquently put it, your Grace, and agrees to practically the same terms he rejected at the beginning. It was not an easy decision for him to make."

"It certainly seemed that way on this end," Malik Vhosek said sourly. "It wasn't his land he was giving away. If he had held out longer, we could have beaten them back. We were winning."

"I'm sure it seemed that way in hindsight, your Grace," Dante agreed. "But the truth is that all the Empire's forces were stretched to the breaking point. And while the Altmer suffered heavy casualties as well, no one can say for certain how it might have ended had His Eminence not conceded."

"So why are you here now, Councilor de Fer?" Timara Yaeli demanded. Dante wasn't sure of her status at the Court of the Crown, but she certainly seemed to pull some weight, as the Malik allowed her to speak.

"The Dominion once again seeks to eradicate anyone who isn't Altmer," he explained. "They struck a heavy blow against the Empire during the Great War, and planted the seeds for the dissention and civil war in Skyrim by demanding the outlawing of Talos worship in that Province – and indeed, all across Tamriel."

"We are not familiar with the root of the trouble in Skyrim," Vhosek said. "But we do not follow the menagerie of gods the Empire would foist upon us. You claim the Dominion is responsible for Skyrim's civil war?"

"They most undoubtedly are, your Grace," Dante replied. "Imagine if the Thalmor were allowed free run of your Province, allowed to go anywhere, and permitted to arrest, detain, imprison and torture anyone who worshipped, for example, Leki, your goddess of swordsmanship."

"Impossible!" Yaeli burst out, while the rest of the Court dissolved into a roar of disapproval.

"Silence!" Vhosek called, but it was several minutes before the crowd quieted down enough for Dante to continue.

"That is what the people of Skyrim are fighting against," he said. "The right to worship their own gods as they so choose. The right to be an independent Province still loyal to the Empire, without Thalmor interference, or Dominion overlordship." He paused. "And it's what the Emperor is trying to prevent from happening all across his Empire. The right for all his subjects to live their lives in peace, without fear of being taken forcibly from their homes on false charges. The Dominion uses false accusations of all types to abduct, torture and murder people. They use operatives of all races, who believe they will be rewarded for their services, but who – ultimately – will be murdered with all the rest of us, if we don't band together to stop them."

He paused and spread his hands wide.

"I know the Empire has treated you abominably," he said. "I am here, in good faith, on behalf of Emperor Titus Mede to tell you the Empire is sorry for that lack of support, thirty years ago. The Emperor did what he felt was best for the people of Tamriel at that time. With hindsight, he realizes he should have trusted and supported the loyalty and ferocity of Hammerfell and its Redguard warriors. Had he done so, he told me, we might not be in this position now. And he asks if you will reconsider establishing more favorable relations between our two nations."

Dante let his hands fall. He had delivered the message. All he could do now was to wait for the Crown to make their decision.

"We cannot consider this in a day, or two days, or even a week," Malik Vhosek said slowly. "This is something we must discuss, not just among ourselves, but with our Forebear representatives as well. We will send word of our decision by diplomatic courier directly to your Emperor. We thank you for your efforts."

A part of Dante slumped inside. He was being dismissed. The Crown would deliberate and sit on its decision until perhaps too late. But there was nothing more he could do. He bowed.

"Might I beg one more courtesy of the Court, your Grace?" he asked.

"Speak," Malik Vhosek intoned.

"I would like very much to have access to your Hall of Records," Dante said, as hopefully as he could.

"For what purpose?" Timara Yaeli asked, curious.

"I am very fond of history," Dante shrugged, "and I find I lack knowledge on a very grand scale about the history of Hammerfell. I would like to learn more, from the source, as it were."

Yaeli turned to Malik Vhosek and lifted an elegant eyebrow. Vhosek gave the slightest shrug before nodding.

"You will find the Hall of Records in the East Pavilion, attached to this Tower," Yaeli told him. "It closes at dusk."

Dante bowed. "Thank you, my Lady, your Grace." He turned and left the Tower, following a courtyard which eventually led him to the Pavilion, and the Hall of Records. He wasn't sure what he would find, but if there were any eye-witness reports at all about the battle at Taneth, he wanted to read them. There just might be something in them that would prove the fall of the city had been an inside job. It was a long shot, but he had nothing else to go on while still in Sentinel. Whatever he learned, the next stop for Cyrus and him would be the city of Taneth itself.

* * *

Marcus and Clarice kept to the road which led northeast out of Wayrest, heading towards Wind Keep.

"It's a town built on textiles," Clarice told him. "Also leather goods. The surrounding countryside is ideal for raising sheep and cows. It used to be much grander than it is these days, but we should be able to stop there safely and rest for a bit."

"I think we'll need to pick up some supplies there, too," Marcus said. "As you pointed out earlier today, we left in quite a hurry."

"Everything I owned was in that house," Clarice choked, suddenly stopping in the road and turning away from Marcus. "I can't believe it's gone now."

"Come here," Marcus crooned, as he would to Tamsyn when she was upset. He took the old Breton woman in his arms and patted her back. "It's going to be okay," he said softly. "I promised Greyshadow I'd find you, and get you safely back to him, and by Akatosh, that's what I intend to do."

"You're a good man, Marcus Dragonborn," she sniffled, quickly getting herself under control. "I swear to you, I'm usually stronger than this."

"I believe you," the young Imperial smiled. "Look at how strong you've been for so long. No one's beaten you yet!"

"And they won't, I promise you," Clarice said firmly. "We should keep moving. Wind Keep is still an hour or so away."

As the Breton nurse had said, Wind Keep had seen better days. But the rolling plains, clustered here and there with pockets of oak, ash and hickory trees looked very idyllic. Far in the distance, to the north, a darker smudge of blue against the horizon heralded a change in the terrain.

"The Wrothgarian Mountains," Clarice explained, when Marcus asked. "They're the dividing line between the Kingdoms of Wrothgar and Stormhaven."

"How many Kingdoms are there?" Marcus queried.

"At the moment?" Nonna snorted mirthlessly. "Four. Glenumbra and Rivenspire are the other two. There used to be many, many more kingdoms, principalities and duchies before the Oblivion Crisis, but that was before my time."

"I thought the Orcs had territory up that way," the Dragonborn commented.

"They do," Clarice confirmed. "But it's really little more than a Stronghold within the Kingdom of Wrothgar. It's called 'Orsinium.' Nobody bothers them, and they don't bother anyone else. That wasn't always the case, though."

As they entered the town, residents and wayfarers gave them curious looks, but no one approached or contested their right to pass through.

They found a public well, which was really a walled-in spring, and the water was crisp, clean and cold. They refreshed themselves briefly before searching for someplace to buy food.

"I'm afraid I haven't any money—" Clarice began, but Marcus waved her off.

"Don't even think about it," he said kindly. "I usually keep enough on hand for traveling expenses."

"You slept in your armor," she pointed out. "Does it have pockets?"

Marcus stopped in the middle of the dusty, cobbled street. Looking down, he patted his hips. His belt pouch, which he had taken off the previous night, was part of the ashes that were now all that remained of Clarice's cottage. He fumbled for the earring he usually wore in his ear. It wasn't there. He had taken it off and put it in the pouch, so as not to attract attention to the fact he was other than a sell-sword.

"Dammit!" he muttered. "Uh…sorry, Clarice."

The old Breton woman blew out a sigh. "Well, it can't be helped. We'll have to figure out another way to pay for our food. If we can get to our ultimate destination," and Marcus noted her discretion in not naming the place, "we won't have to worry. But for now—" She paused and put a hand to her stomach, which complained loudly about the lack of sustenance.

"Any ideas?" Marcus asked. "I mean, I could chop some wood or something."

"That might do it, if we could find anyone who needed it done," Nonna agreed.

It took some time and a lot of asking, but they finally found someone willing to take a chance on a complete stranger.

"Yes," a thin, reedy-looking man named Riley said. "I could use some firewood. I never seem to get around to getting it done. Fortunately, it's spring, so it's not so bad." He led Marcus to the woodblock around the back and gave him the axe, then returned to his shop. The air soon rang with the sure, steady strokes of a man who knew how to chop wood.

Nonna noted the ribbon, precisely marked off, hanging around his neck.

"Are you a tailor?" she asked.

"No, I'm a butcher," Riley quipped with a twinkle in his eye. "Of course, I'm a tailor! Almost everyone in this town is a tailor, if they aren't a shepherd, a cowherd or an armorer! Why? Can you sew?"

"A little," Nonna admitted, hiding a smile.

"Good," said Riley. "I'm getting a bit backed up on my orders. I've got some simple stuff in that pile, there. Just straight stitching, nothing fancy. I'll pay you fair wages for your time, while your son out there builds up my woodpile."

 _Son?_ Nonna chuckled to herself. She didn't enlighten Riley on his mistake, but sat down and took up needle and thread and went to work.

An hour and a half later, Marcus came in. He was sweating, and had taken off his steel cuirass and bracers. A crowd of women were pressed against the window, stealing glimpses of him as he spoke to Riley.

"You ran out of wood to chop," Marcus told him.

"Ran out of…but…but…" Riley spluttered. He ran to the back door and threw it open, stepping into the warm, spring afternoon. Marcus hovered behind him. Every large log had been neatly split and stacked against the shop wall. The yard was littered with chips several inches deep all around the wood block. Giggles and muffled squeals could be heard from around the corner as several young girls sought to get another look at the Imperial.

"That was a face-cord's worth of wood!" the tailor exclaimed, amazed.

Marcus shrugged. "I got into a rhythm and just didn't stop," he said, quirking a smile. "Is Nonna finished?" Too late, he realized he'd used her pet name, but Riley didn't seem to notice. Still bemused, he turned back to his shop.

"Finished?"

"Yes, I saw her sewing when I poked my head in here a while ago," Marcus explained.

Riley seemed to come to himself. "Yes, I think your mother has done enough for one afternoon. I've been busy, so let me check on her."

 _Mother?_ Marcus hid a smile. _I almost wish she was. She's awesome!_ He walked over the hay bale where he'd put his armor. "Hello, ladies!" he smiled.

A flurry of retreating footsteps and a cascade of fading giggles made him grin as he picked up his cuirass and bracers, opened the gate, and headed over to the well to wash the sweat off before donning his armor once more.

Riley was still shaking his head in disbelief as he returned to Clarice. "Your son is finished," he announced. "I'm amazed at what he accomplished in one afternoon!"

"He's a good boy," Nonna smiled indulgently. "I've finished all these, by the way. I hope they're acceptable."

"Let's have a look," the tailor said, pulling out the garment pieces. A slight frown creased his brow as he brought a handful of them over to the window and examined them more closely in the strong light.

"Is there a problem?" Nonna asked, worried, her smile fading from her face. She had tried to do her very best on them.

"Problem?" Riley echoed, looking furiously through the rest of the basket and tugging at the seams. Each one held up to the most vigorous pulling.

"There has to be at least twelve stitches per inch here!" he finally gulped.

"Fifteen, actually," Clarice admitted. "I never do less than that. Now, about our payment?"

Riley slumped onto a nearby stool. "Fifteen stitches per inch…" he muttered. But he roused himself to frown at her. "You've done this before, haven't you?" he accused.

"A time or two," the old woman nodded, "but you couldn't have known or expected that."

"No," Riley half-laughed. "I certainly couldn't!" He went behind the counter, shaking his head and muttering, "Fifteen stitches per inch!" but returned shortly with a large coin pouch. "Here," he said, handing it to her as Marcus appeared in the doorway. "Ordinarily, I wouldn't have the kind of gold it takes to pay for an entire face-cord of wood," he explained. "Much less the amazing work _you_ did on these garments. But I got paid this week for several orders I finished. I'm delighted to share some of it with you. Honest pay for honest work, and all that!"

Clarice accepted the pouch gratefully. "Can you tell us where we can get a meal?" she asked. "And perhaps a bed for the night? We hadn't intended on staying in Wind Keep this long, but it's getting late in the afternoon."

"Wildrose Tavern is your best bet," Riley said with a smile. "The food's not bad, the beds are changed once a week and the prices won't empty your purse – not that you need to worry about that for a while," he winked.

"Thank you," Nonna beamed at him. "We'll take a look there. Farewell!"

"If you're ever in Wind Keep again, please look me up!" Riley gushed. "And if you change your mind and are looking to stay, I could use an assistant!"

"A bit _too_ eager, I would say," Marcus murmured as they left. "What did you do?"

"Not much," Clarice shrugged. "I just did what I normally do…my best."

Marcus chuckled, and impulsively put his arm around her shoulders to hug her. Nonna looked startled, but didn't reject the gesture.

They hadn't eaten since the night before, and both were ravenous. The food was simple, but there was enough of it. As they ate and drank, they spoke in low tones.

"Where do we go from here?" Marcus asked.

"We continue north out of town for a bit, then head east," Clarice said. "We should be able to get there by midday tomorrow. I don't mind telling you, I'm very tired, and wouldn't mind a good night's uninterrupted sleep."

"We'll stay here for tonight," Marcus promised. "I'll make the arrangements. We should have enough now, with what Riley gave us."

"It will be enough to get us to our destination," the Breton woman nodded. She had counted the coin once they had entered the tavern. "I would like to get another staff before we set out tomorrow. There are plenty of nice, straight hickory saplings just outside of town. One of them should do."

Not long after, they climbed the steps to the second floor and the room they would have to share, the innkeeper having informed them he only had one room available.

"I don't want to sound paranoid," Clarice said quietly as she lay down on the ticking, "but it might be a good idea to take turns, and set a watch."

"You think we're being followed?" Marcus asked, instantly alert.

"I don't know," the old woman replied. "But the training I had in my youth never really left me. I'd feel safer if we kept our wits about us."

"Sleep, then," Marcus told her. "I've got first watch. If anything happens, I'll wake you."

She nodded and lay back down. In moments, she was sound asleep, exhausted from the ordeal of the night before and walking most of the previous day. Marcus listened to her even breathing as he sat in the only available chair by the window. Clarice, dubious of the quality of the lock on the door, had cast a spell on it which held it tightly closed. No one could get through it short of magic. _Or a thu'um,_ he grinned to himself in the dark.

He stared out the window of the tavern to the courtyard below. The moons were both up at the same time, and nearly full, though Masser would be setting soon. Across the courtyard was the stable where horses were kept for their owners, staying at the inn. He watched the shadows carefully, but nothing moved through them. As an extra precaution, he sent out his Aura Whisper, and was satisfied there truly was nothing there.

Clarice might be slightly paranoid about being followed, but she couldn't hold a candle to Delphine and Esbern who saw Thalmor operatives around every corner and under every rock.

When Little Sister Secunda was past her zenith and heading to sleep in the west, Marcus woke Clarice gently. She still startled but quickly calmed herself when she saw in the glow of his Candlelight spell who it was.

"I thought you didn't do magic?" she chuckled.

"I said I didn't do _much_ ," he clarified, taking her place in the bed. "It's quiet out there. I didn't see anything moving."

"How could you?" she demanded, reasonably. "It's dark out there."

"I have a _thu'um,_ a Dragon Shout, that lets me see life energy," he explained, punching the pillow a couple of times. "It's called 'Aura Whisper.'"

"Ohh!" Nonna exclaimed softly. "So _that's_ how you knew the ghouls were there before we could see them! _Now_ I understand!" She gave a snort of mirth. "You could have told me that before! When we move out tomorrow, you'll have to tell me what else you can do. I've never really known what powers the Dragonborn has."

"Happy to enlighten you," Marcus yawned, "in the morning. G'nite, Clarice."

"Good night, Marcus," she smiled in the darkness, now that his Candlelight extinguished itself. "Sleep well."

The night passed uneventfully, with Clarice keeping a watch at the window, using her _Detect Life_ spell any time a rabbit or squirrel crossed the courtyard. They broke their fast with porridge and ale, because that was what was on the menu that morning, and it didn't cost much.

Marcus cut Clarice the sapling she needed and trimmed it to the length she desired, removing the extraneous branches with the ebony dagger. It was about five feet in length and a little over an inch in thickness. Nonna stripped the bark off it as they walked.

They only had one encounter that morning. A small group of hedge-robbers accosted them shortly after they had turned eastward down a rough cart-track that was barely definable in the wooded area they passed through.

"Give us everything you've got," the leader, a female Orc with a mop of orange hair and dull purple eyes, demanded. Several scars wove a patchwork down her face, and her two lower tusks were capped in gold. Behind her were four more brutish Orcs, including another female, who guffawed at what they considered 'easy pickings.'

"Everything?" Marcus asked, with a sly smile at his companion.

"Oh, I don't think we should hold anything back, dear," Nonna grinned. "After all, they _did_ ask for it!"

" _TIID KLO UL!"_

Time slowed to a crawl around Marcus as he dashed past the bandit chief to slash with Akaviri steel and ebony at the two brutes behind her, who seemed to be the largest. Hamstringing them, he brought his blades around and lopped off the sword-arm of a third Orc, coming up from the rear. Spinning around, he saw Clarice's staff smash up the side of the chief's head, then slowly come around and bash end-on into her face, breaking her nose.

The two crippled Orcs were going down, and the disarmed one was clutching his stump to his chest. That left the other female, and Marcus saw her coming up on Clarice's left side. As he moved up to intercept, the staff jabbed down and to Nonna's left as she tripped the second female, who went down hard. An overhand swing brought the staff back around to smash into the Orc's head, knocking her unconscious.

Time suddenly resumed, and Marcus found himself standing in the middle of five badly wounded Orcs. Clarice was breathing heavily, but a wicked smile was plastered on her face.

"I don't think they'll be bothering us again," she announced, pleased. "Shall we go?"

"I have to say," Marcus commented as they resumed their journey, leaving the Orcs groaning behind them, "watching you in slow motion was a thing of beauty!"

"Oh, now you're just flattering an old woman," she laughed.

As the sun crossed the middle of the sky overhead, Clarice finally slowed. "It's around here, somewhere," she muttered. "Let me see…"

She peered around the woods, seeming to search for some kind of sign or landmark, before a voice in the trees overhead called out, "That's far enough. State your business here."

"I'm Clarice Renault," she announced. "And this is Marcus of Whiterun, who is Dragonborn. We need to speak to Grand Master Jurard."

"Dragonborn?" the man exclaimed. "Wait here." There was a shiver of branches overhead, then silence.

"Jurard?" Marcus queried. "His last name is Jurard?"

"Yes," Clarice nodded. "Why do you ask?"

"I know a Sorine Jurard in Skyrim. She's with the Dawnguard."

"It's not a common last name," the older Breton woman mused. "She might be related."

A grating sound of stone against stone rumbled from the hillside in front of them, and part of the cliff-face opened up. A Breton man who appeared to be in his sixties stepped out.

"Clarice!" he exclaimed delightedly. "Is it really you? I thought the Thalmor must have gotten you years ago!" He closed the distance and enfolded her in a warm hug.

"It's really me, Grand Master," she smiled, misty-eyed. "And it would take more than Thalmor to take me out!" She squeezed his hands fondly. "Look! I've brought someone I want you to meet. Grand Master, this is Marcus, called Dragonborn."

"I've heard the rumors," Grand Master Jurard breathed, "but I scarcely dared to hope they could be true! Are you _really-?"_

Marcus nodded modestly. "I really am," he said quietly. "I'm still not sure how I came to be Dragonborn, but I know why I'm here."

"Well, of course!" the Breton man grinned. "It's what we're _all_ here to do: kill dragons, right? You've already killed the greatest dragon of all, Alduin! I'm sure it's only a matter of time before you get around to the rest of them."

Marcus felt his stomach plummet. "Uh…actually…"

"And we'll be here to help you, Dragonborn!" Grand Master Jurard enthused. "Oh, there's so much we have to discuss, you and I! I can't believe I'm actually speaking with the _Dragonborn!_ This is something I've waited for my whole life! Come inside, both of you. You must be exhausted. You must tell me everything!"

He led them inside the tunnel, and Marcus heard the stone rolling back into place. The sudden thud behind him felt as though it was sealing his doom.

* * *

The cool interior of the Hall of Records was a welcome relief from the heat of the day. Dante looked around the large, dim chamber covered with shelves and scroll racks from corner to corner and from floor to ceiling, where enchanted paddles, joined four or five to a group by their handles, spun lazily overhead, stirring the air gently, helping to prevent the enclosed building from becoming too stifling. There were no windows here. Daylight might have harmed the rare and delicate parchments, causing them to fade. Mage lights had been set at sparse intersections between shelving units, providing only enough illumination by which to search. It was an archivist's paradise, he realized.

"May I help you, _no shira?"_ an old Redguard woman in embroidered robes asked gently. _No shira,_ Dante knew, meant 'noble person.'

"I'm looking to learn more about Hammerfell's trials during the Great War," he told the recordkeeper. "In particular, anything to do with the city of Taneth."

"Taneth?" the old woman frowned. "That was bad business, that was. Thousands of lives lost that day. But why are you, a Breton, interested in our poor history?"

"I'm a bit of a scholar," Dante replied truthfully. Indeed, he was fascinated by many subjects, history among them. "My name is Lance de Fer, and I'm also a dealer of antiquities in the Imperial City in Cyrodiil," he went on. "I'm here to learn more about Hammerfell, its people and its history, to make sure someone isn't trying to pass off counterfeit items to me."

"Ah!" she smiled. "You've come to the right place, then. So good to see the younger generation take an interest in things that are long dead and gone, even if you _are_ an outsider. I am Selma, Keeper of Records. Follow me, my lord. I believe I have some information you may find useful."

She led Dante to an aisle better lit than others. It was wide enough to allow for a narrow table and bench to be placed between the shelves. A small mage light hovered just above a receptacle on the table usually used for soul gems. Selma gestured to both sides of the aisle.

"Everything we have on the Great War can be found in this section," she smiled. "If I can be of any further service, my lord, please do not hesitate to ask. We close at dusk." She bowed deeply and left him to his own devices.

Looking at the collection of tightly-packed books and carefully-rolled scrolls, Dante sighed. This would take time he didn't have, and he wasn't even sure where to start. At that moment, he honestly wished Cyrus was here to help him go through it all.

Shaking his head, he pulled out the first tome off the high shelf and began to skim. Very quickly, he realized it had little to do with Taneth, but was more an overview of the Great War in general. The next several volumes were similar. Over the years, since he'd become a thief, Dante learned how to skim-read quickly and accurately, in order to assess the value of book. His own personal library would have been the envy of the Imperial Mages' Guild, if they were still in existence, and he recognized several texts on the shelves in this Hall as books he already owned and had read. It made going through them a little bit easier. As he moved along the shelves, deciding to concentrate on the books first before tackling the scrolls, he accumulated a small pile on the table to peruse more thoroughly.

" _No shira?"_ Selma ventured quietly.

Dante looked up, raising an eyebrow.

"Forgive me, my lord, but the sun has nearly gone down," she apologized. "I'm afraid I must ask you to leave. You are more than welcome to return tomorrow and continue browsing our collections."

Dante looked at the stack of books he'd set out on the table.

"May I leave those there," he asked, "so I don't have to find them again in the morning?"

"Of course," Selma smiled. "We don't get many visitors. I'm sure no one will disturb them."

Dante thanked her and left to return to the inn where he'd left Cyrus. The Redguard was fuming when he got there.

"Where in Oblivion have you been all day?" the younger man demanded. "I have been sitting here, doing nothing but worry you had been apprehended for helping me!"

"You think a lot of yourself, don't you?" Dante asked mildly. "As it happens, I had business of my own with the Crown. Afterwards, I was at the Hall of Records for the rest of the day."

"Business?" Cyrus frowned. "What business?"

" _My_ business," the Grey Fox said firmly, "that didn't include you. Oh, don't give me that look. If I wanted to betray you, I wouldn't have come to Sentinel with you in the first place."

Cyrus relaxed, but only slightly.

"Why were you at the Hall of Records?" he asked.

Dante gave a slight smile. "I was doing research. Something you _could_ have done, if the need to support yourself by becoming a sell sword hadn't taken you away from it." The allowance he gave to Cyrus' reason took the sting of censure from his words. "I found a few books I'd like to take a closer look at in the morning. And there's a pile of scrolls I haven't touched yet. So, you're coming with me tomorrow."

"But—"

"Two sets of eyes are better than one," Dante snapped, losing his patience. "I think you're being overly paranoid about being recognized, but wear your keffiyeh just in case. I think we'll be fine. If I'm wrong – and I rarely am – we'll deal with it when it happens."

The young Redguard looked decidedly unhappy about the turn of events, but nodded and said nothing more. They took their evening meal in the common room once more before retiring for the night. The next morning, both men were up early and headed back to the Hall of Records. Selma greeted them as she opened the doors for the day.

"Welcome, _no shiran,"_ she smiled pleasantly. "I see you've returned, and brought a friend," she said to Dante.

"My apprentice," he smiled. "I'm trying to teach Curtis, here, more about antiques from his own country."

"Wonderful!" Selma exclaimed delightedly. "Where are you from, Curtis?"

"I…uh…grew up right here in Sentinel," he stammered, tugging his keffiyeh tighter around his neck. "M-master de Fer thought I had some talent."

"Well, I hope you do," the old Redguard woman smiled. "The books you chose yesterday are still there, my lord. Please enjoy your search."

"Thank you," Dante smiled and bowed, giving Cyrus a nudge to get him to do the same.

They sat down across from each other at the narrow table and Cyrus leaned forward to whisper, "So now I'm your 'apprentice'?"

Dante looked up to see those startling blue eyes crinkling at him, and felt a grin of his own cross his face. "Quick of you to catch on," he whispered back. "Nice job!"

"Where do I start?" Cyrus asked, sober once more. "And what are we looking for?"

"Start with those scrolls behind you," Dante advised. "And we're looking for specifics related to the fall of Taneth."

Cyrus nodded and got to work, while Dante perused the remaining shelves on his side for other books he may have missed. His small stack grew only by a book or two.

At midday they stopped, needing food and a break, but they were soon back at it, reading through the likely candidates of books, parchments and vellums they had set aside.

"This is interesting," Cyrus finally spoke. They had worked for several hours in silence. Dante made a pass with one hand, releasing some of his magicka, but only he could see the image of Selma near the front door, nodding off at her post. To be certain, he glanced upwards as well. There was no one else in the Hall with them.

"What have you got?" Dante asked, satisfied they were alone.

"It says that Taneth was temporarily under Dominion control for a time after the Great War officially ended for the Empire, but before the Second Treaty of Stros M'Kai," the young Redguard said quietly.

"Does it mention how the city fell?"

"No," Cyrus replied. "It only says that nearly every southern city in Hammerfell at the time, except for Hegathe, was under Dominion control, but after five more years of war, both sides agreed neither could win, so the Treaty was signed and the Dominion withdrew."

"Hmm…well, it's information, but it doesn't help us in this case," Dante observed. "Keep looking."

Silence fell once more. Dante was conscious of the passing of time, and he chafed at the delay. They couldn't afford to spend too much time digging though dusty old tomes and crumbling parchments. They needed to find some kind of proof of Prince Azanir's treachery. It was looking as though the only place to find that proof might be in Taneth itself.

" _The city of Taneth is located on a small peninsula jutting out into Hubalajad's Bay. As a fortress port with fortifications styled after those of Anvil and Sutch, Taneth managed to stand its ground well into the Great War while Rihad and Gilane had fallen quickly to Lady Arannelya and her forces."_

Snapping to attention, Dante pulled the mage light over to him and began reading more closely. He flipped back to the title of the treatise: _On the Dominion Protectorate of Taneth._ It had been written by an anonymous author some months before the Second Treaty of Stros M'Kai.

" _In late 4E 171 the Aldmeri began a protracted siege of the city. In 4E 174 King Erastus and his two sons attempted to break through the Aldmeri siege, hoping to link up with the army led by Prince Shirukh of Rihad gathering in Elinhir._

" _The attempt ended with all but the younger of his two sons, Abbas, and some two hundred gallants perishing in the Battle of Burning Sand, the survivors managing to escape to Elinhir with the aid of Alik'r nomads. Erastus left Taneth in the hands of Vezir Murat at-Suda, who had become bedridden soon after the king's departure, believed to have been poisoned by political enemies. As such, his daughter Iman at-Suda became acting Vezir in his stead."_

"Cyrus! Listen to this!" Dante hissed. He cast his _Detect Life_ spell once more before reading the passages aloud to his companion.

"Murat?" Cyrus exclaimed, before dropping his voice lower. "Murat was my great-uncle. He was the brother of my grandfather, my uncle's uncle, as it were. His daughter, Iman, was my uncle's cousin, and he named his daughter after her."

 _So those Alik'r warriors were partially correct,_ Dante mused privately. _There_ was _a woman named Iman involved, but it was the wrong generation. Or they were counting on people to become confused about little things like details. But who paid the assassins to spread that slander, and why?_

"What else does it say?" Cyrus asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Dante skimmed the rest before answering. "It says that the city of Taneth was on the brink of starvation after battling Lady Arannelya's forces," he relayed, "so this Iman opened up the gates and gave up the city to the Dominion." He paused. "That doesn't sound right somehow," he frowned. "It was at that point in the war when Lady Arannelya was already withdrawing her troops. All Taneth had to do was wait until they were gone to get out and get supplies once more. Something isn't adding up."

"So, the city is betrayed and the Dominion occupies it for the next handful of years," Cyrus said slowly. "Why did they want it so badly?"

"They mention that here, too," Dante replied. He found the passage and quoted: _"While the Thalmor and Lady Arannelya often talk of their purpose in Hammerfell being to stamp out Abecean piracy, the real reason behind their presence is no secret to anyone. Taneth's surrender gave the Thalmor a stronghold on the southern shore and a beachhead for future invasions. In a sense, it is the immediate threat posed by the Protectorate of Taneth that has maintained the shaky alliance between the Crowns and the Forebears, for as soon as the two factions are at each other's throats once again, reports of black sails bearing the Aldmeri Sunbird off the southern coast are soon to follow."_ Dante paused before adding his own observation. "It also accomplished one of the Dominion's goals: to further break up the Empire by driving a wedge between them and Hammerfell."

"But even after the Dominion left," Cyrus pointed out, still thinking of his own homeland, "the Crowns and Forebears still have a tenuous peace between them."

"The Dominion may only have been the catalyst to make that happen," Dante offered. "While the Crown doesn't care for the influence of Imperial and foreign traditions on the people of Hammerfell, they don't object to the coin that comes with peaceful trade."

"Money," Cyrus snorted bitterly.

"The love for it is at the root of all evil, I've heard," Dante replied lightly. "Well, I think we've learned all we can learn here. Let's put these things back. We'll head to Taneth in the morning."

* * *

The welcome Marcus received from the Blades was nothing short of embarrassing, considering what he knew he had to tell them. Everyone was thrilled to actually meet the Dragonborn, and practically hero-worshipped him. It made what he had to say that much more difficult.

"Tell us, Marcus, please," Grand Master Jurard begged. "Tell us how you defeated Alduin, the most foul and evil of all the dragons."

"I'd like to hear that story myself," Clarice added. "I've only heard bits and pieces; that you went to Sovngarde and killed him there."

 _Oh, boy,_ he thought, panicking. _What am I supposed to say?_

 _Tell them the truth,_ came Akatosh's quiet counsel. _Tell them what you told Delphine and Esbern. Point out to them who the real enemy is._

Marcus immediately felt a sense of calm fall over him. He took a deep breath.

"This is going to be a long story," he warned them. "And you probably won't like some parts of it. But I invite you all to get comfortable. This is going to take some time." And he began speaking.

When he was done, several hours later, he faced a crowd of people whose entire purpose in the world had been shaken to its foundation.

"This can't be right," Grand Master Jurard said slowly. "You want us to work _with_ the dragons?"

"Yes," Marcus replied. "I've defeated their leader, Alduin. In their eyes that makes me more powerful than him."

" _Are_ you more powerful?" a woman, Destri, asked. She appeared to be their Archivist.

"I was strong enough to defeat Alduin," he shrugged.

"But not alone, by your own admission," Destri pointed out. "You had others to help you."

"And that's how we'll defeat the Thalmor, and the Aldmeri Dominion," Marcus shot back. "By all of us working together. The Dominion wants to set us fighting against ourselves, as they did with Hammerfell right after the War, as they're doing with Skyrim now. They took advantage of the Empire's confusion after the Oblivion crisis to overrun Valenwood, and after the end of the Void Nights they claimed responsibility for bringing back the Moons, earning the undying loyalty of the Khajiit nation."

"We know all this," Destri began, but a few in the crowd called out, "No, not all of us!" She shot the offenders a sour look before continuing. "My point is, our whole existence has been based on the eradication of the dragons, and now you want us to set that aside?"

"What did you do when the dragons went away?"

Marcus watched their faces as his question sank in. It was Grand Master Jurard who spoke.

"We became the Protectors of the Septim line, of course," he replied.

"We – our predecessors, that is – fought the occasional dragon from time to time," Destri said defensively. "They didn't _all_ go away, all at once, you know."

"I know," Marcus nodded. "And I also know that the Thalmor were the ones who hunted you down. The dragons didn't do that. After the death of Emperor Uriel Septim, and Martin Septim's sacrifice, your organization drifted. You sat in your temples, or took other work, waiting for a Dragonborn to guard. Well, now you have one. And I say we hunt the Thalmor, not dragons. I say we take the fight to the Dominion, and push them back to the Summerset Isles, and crush them so hard that no Altmer will ever consider bringing back a Fourth Aldmeri Dominion."

He paused and waited for their agitated murmurs to subside.

"Right now, as we speak, we are mobilizing in Skyrim and in Cyrodiil," he told them. "I am working on getting the cooperation of the dragons to carry riders, so we can cross the Abacean Sea if necessary, and eradicate the threat at its root. The threat of dragons will, hopefully, remain just that – a threat. I don't want to use them unless the Dominion gives us no choice. But they _must_ be stopped!"

"Dragon _riders?"_ Jurard murmured in wonder. "Is such a thing possible?"

"I ride one," Marcus said simply.

"But what keeps them in line?" Destri frowned. "What's to prevent them from dumping you off in mid-air?" She shuddered at the thought.

"Honor," said Marcus. He waited for their snorts of derision to settle. "Why do you think dragons have no honor?" he asked them. _"I_ have the blood and soul of a dragon, yet all of you are sworn to protect and guide me. Do you think _I_ have no honor?"

Scores of eyes refused to meet his.

"Look," he said earnestly, "I know I'm asking a lot from you, and you don't even know me. You've served an ideal for so long, that having that ideal come to life right in front of you has shaken everything you thought you knew right down to your core. I come in here and I start telling you my plans, and they don't coincide with yours. You thought that if you ever met a Dragonborn, that he or she would want to make all dragons extinct. If Akatosh had chosen anyone but me, that might have been true."

He paused again and took a deep breath before continuing. "But I see this world a little differently. I see the real threat to our freedoms isn't a host of fire- and frost-breathing dragons; it's a race of people who believe others do not deserve to live. To me, that's the _real_ monster in this world."

There was silence for a long moment as the Blades turned this new information over in their heads. It was Clarice who finally spoke.

"Most of you don't know me," she said, "but I've been a Blade since we lived at our original Storm Talon Temple. I've been hiding from Thalmor, from the Empire, and from a family of nobility that wants me dead, and I've survived this long. I've only known Marcus for a handful of days, but I can tell you this: I believe him. He's honest, loyal, and has a measure of integrity about him that I've seldom seen in people I've known. He's also a damned good fighter. And I've seen him use the Voice. He _is_ Dragonborn. If he believes we need to change to survive, then I'm with him."

Grand Master Jurard frowned. "I don't know…" he said slowly. "We've pursued the dragons for so long. Now we have to make friends with them?"

"Which do you hate more, you old fool?" Clarice scolded him. "The dragons who follow Marcus, or the Thalmor who persecute us?"

Jurard gave her a sour look, but nodded. "Alright," he said finally. "We will be guided by you, Dragonborn. It…will be hard for us…but we will trust you."

He turned to the crowd surrounding them. "Is that understood?" he announced. "From this day forward, we work to destroy the Aldmeri Dominion!"

As the scores of gathered Blades agents roared their approval, Clarice came up to Marcus and slipped her arm around his waist. "You set us on a new and dangerous path, young Marcus," she warned him. "You've shaken them – and me – out of our complacency. But that's a good thing. Change doesn't happen through accepting what has always been."

"We'll make it happen, Clarice," he assured her. "It may take some time, but the days of the Third Aldmeri Dominion are numbered."

* * *

Reydin Glane peered out the door of the warehouse near the docks of Southpoint where he hid with Prince Garvar and his ward, Falisa. The child was asleep on a pile of burlap sacks provided by Reydin's contact with the Thieves' Guild in Valenwood.

"Will we be safe here?" Prince Garvar had worried.

"As safe as any place can be from the Thalmor in Valenwood," Tanis had replied. "This warehouse belongs to the East Empire Company, and I have connections to that organization. The Thalmor aren't welcome to poke around in here. Though they might be watching the ship when it loads up tomorrow at midday."

"We'll have to take our chances," Reydin said. "We need to get on that ship."

"I have your papers here," Tanis said, handing him a pouch. "And here's some food for your journey, so you won't have to poke your heads outside the cabin too often."

"How long will it take us to get to the Imperial City?" the Prince asked, accepting the sack of bread, cheese and dried meats and fruits.

"A week to ten days," Tanis replied, "depending on the weather. The ship will make port at Senchal in Elsweyr, Leyawiin, and Bravil in Cyrodiil before you get to the capital. I need to get back in case I'm missed. Good luck!"

"Thank you!" Reydin said, fervently, clasping Tanis' wrist. "Get word to me in the Imperial City if you need anything down here. I'll make it happen."

Tanis gave a salute before slipping out the door. Reydin made sure it was secured behind him.

"How are we going to get on that ship without being seen by the Thalmor?" Prince Garvar asked. "I saw their soldiers all over the docks, checking everything and everybody when we got here. If it wasn't for that scuffle between the longshoremen, I'm sure they would have seen us."

"Oh, I think we'll get on board," Reydin replied, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "I really wish there had been someone you could have left the child with, though. I hate for her to get mixed up in this. I don't want to see her get hurt. Those Dominion patrols almost had us a couple of times."

"Falisa stays with me," the Prince said again, his jaw set stubbornly.

"I know, I know," Reydin sighed exasperatedly. "But can't you see how much safer she'd be in someone else's care while we get you out of the country?"

"She wouldn't be safe!" the older Bosmer snapped. "I don't want to discuss it."

"Okay, okay," Reydin said, putting his hands up in defeat. "We'll just have to manage as best we can. We should be alright once we're on the ship. Let's just hope the Thalmor don't do surprise inspections."

The Prince fell into a brooding silence, and Reydin maintained his position by the warehouse door, keeping watch. Falisa slept the afternoon and most of the evening away before awaking and declaring loudly, "I'm hungry! I have to pee!"

"Shush, Falisa!" Garvar warned her. "Remember to use your quiet voice. I'll find you a chamber pot, if there's one available."

"Not too likely here," Reydin commented, from his post. "It might be better to find an unused corner somewhere. We aren't going to be here tomorrow when they start loading up, so it won't matter."

"Come along, Falisa," her guardian said. "Let's find some privacy for you."

They returned several minutes later, and Garvar dampened a cloth with some of the water from the skin at his belt and wiped her hands and face.

"I'm still hungry," Falisa whined. "I want a muffin."

"We don't have any muffins," Garvar told her, firmly. "We have some dried apples."

"I want a muffin," the child keened.

"Falisa!" the Prince said sharply. "Stop that!"

Reydin moved swiftly to her side and knelt down.

"Falisa," he said sternly. "What color is your dress?"

"I—what?"

"Your dress," he repeated firmly. "What color is it?"

Falisa looked down. "B-brown," she said.

"Good," Reydin smiled. "Now, where are we?"

The child looked around. "In a big building."

"Excellent!" the Nightingale approved. "And do you remember why we are hiding in here?"

"So the bad elves in the shiny armor won't find us," she said quietly, her tantrum forgotten before it started.

"That's right," Reydin nodded. "Now, in order to keep hiding so they won't find us, we need to be quiet, okay?"

The child nodded. "O-okay," she mumbled. "But I really want a muffin."

"I will buy you a muffin as soon as we are safe," Reydin promised. "We don't have any right now. But as soon as I can, I will buy you a muffin, alright?"

"Alright, Reydin," Falisa smiled. "You promise?"

He made the sign of Mara on his chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die," he swore.

Falisa giggled and threw her arms around his neck. "I love you, Reydin! You're funny!"

Caught off-guard, Reydin swallowed hard and tentatively hugged her back.

Satisfied, Falisa allowed herself to be seated on a crate with a chunk of bread, some dried fruit and a bit of cheese. They only had water to drink, but she seemed happy enough for now, her good humor restored.

"You know more about children than I apparently do," the Prince murmured.

Reydin nodded shortly. "I was a father, once," was all he said, before resuming his watch at the warehouse door.

The next morning Tanis came to escort them to a more secure location closer to the _Wind Skimmer,_ which was the ship that would take them to Cyrodiil.

"The longshoremen are going to be moving things in and out of the warehouse soon," he told them. "You should be safe enough in the harbor-master's office until it's time to board the _Skimmer."_

"I've noticed more Dominion soldiers," Prince Garvar said.

"Yeah," Tanis sighed. "It seems you're a real popular guy. They're circulating leaflets with your description on them, and say you're traveling with a small child."

Reydin said nothing, but it was clear the Prince knew what he was thinking, because his jaw tightened again.

"Any ideas how to slip past them?" was all the Nightingale said.

Tanis shook his head. "I'm afraid you're on your own," he said. "I have to be on the other side of the harbor two minutes ago. Good luck!" Again, he quirked a salute as he exited the office.

"Are we leaving now?" Falisa asked.

"Soon, child, soon," Garvar soothed. "Do we make a run for it?" he asked Reydin.

"We may have to," Reydin frowned. "But I have a trick or two up my sleeve yet. As soon as the workmen start moving things in and out of that warehouse, it's going to get very busy on that dock. We'll leave as soon as it's teeming, and when I give the word, you take the child and your identification papers and get up that gang-plank. Don't wait for me, and don't look back, no matter what happens, understand?"

"Are you coming with us, Reydin?" Falisa worried.

"Of course," he smiled. "I just won't be right behind you. Just do what the Prince tells you to do, promise?"

"The Prince?" the child frowned, puzzled.

"He means me, child," Garvar told her. "It's a game we play."

"Oh!" Falisa giggled. "I like games!"

"Get your bag and get ready, alright?" he told her. She ran across the office to the harbor master's desk where she'd put her bag of belongings.

"She doesn't know," he whispered harshly to Reydin. "Don't call me that again!"

Reydin shrugged. "If you say so," was all he said as Falisa returned. "Get ready," he warned, peering through the window.

From somewhere, a horn sounded, and a flurry of activity exploded on the docks as the longshoremen worked quickly to unload the _Skimmer_ of her current cargo and get the new freight on board as quickly as possible. People began streaming up and down the gangway, and the pervasive Thalmor soldiers were everywhere, interfering with the proceedings in their attempt to examine every passenger's papers. Some were more amenable, feeling it was just another obstacle to be endured. Others were quite vocal in their objections.

As Reydin and his little entourage moved closer, he could hear one passenger, a richly-dressed Imperial with a long nose and haughty attitude, confronting the Dominion representatives. Two bodyguards were with him.

"I don't have to show you anything!" he said loudly. "I am only required to show my passage papers to the Steward on board."

"We're just making sure no one stows away who doesn't belong," the Thalmor Justiciar sniffed, unimpressed.

Reydin concentrated on the Imperial and made a swift gesture with two fingers of one hand. Immediately, the Imperial's attitude became even more belligerent. His two bodyguards placed their hands on the hilts of their weapons.

"Are you accusing me of being a…a stow-away?" he cried indignantly. "Do you have any idea who I am? You're lucky I don't have you clapped in irons, you Altmer toady!"

The two soldiers with the Justiciar drew their swords, and the crowd pressed away from the confrontation, sweeping Reydin, Garvar and Falisa up the gangplank towards the ship, where the Steward, an Imperial, was waiting.

"Papers, please?" he asked in a bored tone, his hand held out.

Garvar gave him their documents, and the Steward barely glanced at them, looking instead at the fight escalating out of control below.

"You'll find your cabin below," he told them, still not looking at them. "Have a pleasant journey."

"Go ahead," Reydin murmured, hanging back near the rail. Garvar nodded and took Falisa below with their meagre supplies.

The Southpoint guard had arrived, now, and as Reydin watched, the Justiciar, his soldiers, and the Imperial and his bodyguards were hauled away for questioning. They didn't return before the gangplank was lifted, and the _Wind Skimmer_ maneuvered her way out of the harbor. Reydin let out a deep sigh of relief and headed below.

The Prince and his young charge had settled into their cabin, which was small, but offered a porthole-view of the Eltheric Ocean beyond. Falisa had lain down on one of the bunks and was fast asleep.

"I think we're safe for the time being," he murmured to the Prince. "We have one more hurdle to jump, at Senchal. Elsweyr is still a Protectorate of the Dominion, and their presence will be felt there as well."

"What about at Leyawiin and Bravil?" Garvar asked.

"We should be safe enough there," Reydin said. "That's home territory for me. I sent word ahead through Tanis to have our Guild watch our backs the moment we cross over into Cyrodiil. Until we have you safely hidden in the Imperial City, however, I won't breathe easy."

"Why are you doing this?" Garvar demanded. "You're a thief! You've said so yourself. Why is saving my life so important to you?"

"It's important to a lot of people," Reydin dismissed. "The rightful Prince of Valenwood?" He snorted. "You're the only person the people could rally behind to throw off the chains of Dominion oppression!"

"That's hogwash, and you know it," Garvar scoffed. "If the people of Valenwood gave a damn about their hereditary ruler, they would have fought harder against the Dominion when they first danced into our country!"

"I'm not saying that's not true," Reydin shrugged, "but it wasn't all that long ago that we had our own government, and abided by our own laws."

"We have been a part of the Aldmeri Dominion before," Prince Garvar pointed out. "What makes this one so different?"

"Well, for one thing," Reydin said blandly, "this one wants to kill us all."

"I don't believe you," Garvar said. "Their rules are somewhat harsh, but it's only to keep order against rebels, like you."

"Yes, I'm a rebel," Reydin admitted. "But the Thalmor broke any oaths of loyalty when they began killing innocent men, women and children." He scowled. "I know their target was the Greenhand. But no one in Everglen knew the rebels had their secret base near there. My wife and daughters certainly didn't know. I lived there, and I didn't even know. So why destroy the entire village just to get to a few 'rebels'?"

He forced himself to calm down. "It's actions like that – wholesale slaughter, unrepentant murder – that make people hate the Thalmor. And when you consider what their ultimate goal is, it's not too hard to see why they have so little value for any life other than Altmer. You remember the Great War." It was a statement, not a question.

Garvar nodded. "I remember," he said. "I was there. I fought for the Dominion. I was just another soldier."

"You see?" Reydin pressed. "That's exactly my point! To the Dominion, we're just warm bodies to throw at our enemies. How many of us died at the Battle of the Red Ring?"

"Too many," Garvar barely whispered.

"And the Khajiit were there with you, I assume?" Reydin threw at him.

"There were many Altmer there, too," Garvar replied defensively.

"But not at the front," Reydin pointed out. "Only after the Imperial army decimated the front-line fighters did General Naarifin commit his Altmer soldiers."

"You sound as if you were there, too," Garvar commented.

Reydin shrugged. "I was conscripted. As were we all. Of course, I was there! I was very young, then, and I got knocked out early, but I was there."

Garver blew out an exasperated breath. "So, where does that leave us? We can't fight the Dominion. The entire Imperial army couldn't beat them."

"There's debate about that on both sides," Reydin said. "And right now, I'm just the courier. It's my job to get you safely to _my_ boss, who can tell you everything you need to know. For now, let's just concentrate on getting to the Imperial City in one piece."

The Prince said nothing, but fell into a preoccupied silence for the rest of the day. He tended to Falisa and made certain she was comfortable, but his mind was clearly on other things.

On the third day of their journey, a certain six-year-old Bosmeri child had far too much energy for their tiny cabin. Garvar still seemed to be struggling with internal issues, so Reydin took her up on the main deck to get some fresh air.

He explained to her that they needed to keep out of the way of the sailors, doing their jobs, but told her all the names of the different sails, lines and parts of the _Wind Skimmer_ the child could see.

"You know a lot about boats," Falisa told him.

"Ships," he corrected gently. "Something this big is called a 'ship.' And yes, I know quite a bit. I used to be a sailor, a long time ago."

"Do you think I could be a sailor?" the child asked, seriously.

"I think you could," Reydin nodded, "if you get a little bit bigger and study hard."

"Garvar is teaching me my letters and numbers," Falisa informed him. "How much do I have to know to be a sailor?"

"Well, more than you do right now," Reydin chuckled. Again, he was struck by how adorable she was, when she wasn't tired, and he wondered where the Prince had picked her up. He no longer wondered why the older Bosmer wouldn't leave her behind. He himself would have found it hard to do so. "I'd say you're going to have to learn how to read, and do sums," he said thoughtfully. "But I wouldn't worry about it. You have plenty of time to learn all that. We're Bosmer, after all, and we'll live much longer than humans will."

"That's what Garvar told me," she said, pulling herself up onto a crate to sit and let the wind play with her hair. The braids had come undone, again, but she didn't seem to mind.

"Where did you meet Garvar, Falisa?" he asked her. "Do you remember?"

She shook her curly head. "No, he's always been there," she said. "Garvar takes care of me."

"Don't you have a mother or…father?" he said, pushing past the lump in his throat.

Again, the child shook her head. "I don't think so. I don't remember. What's that?" she cried, pointing overhead in delight.

Reydin blinked quickly and looked up. "Sea gulls," he told her. "Have you never seen them before?"

"No!" the child clapped in delight. "The only birds I've ever seen were small and brown. Not big and grey like these!"

As they walked around the deck, Falisa prattled on about her life in the woods, just her and Garvar, and Reydin realized that whoever her parents were, they must have died when she was very young. Somehow, the Prince had found her and taken her with him into hiding. It was possible that she was the child of people who had served him, and he felt an obligation to care for her.

"Is Garvar really a Prince?" Falisa asked out of the blue, stopping Reydin in his tracks. Looking around swiftly, he crouched down next to the child.

"It's just a game," he explained, "like he told you. But you mustn't let others hear you talk about that, or they'll want to play, too. We have to keep it just for us."

"Okay," Falisa whispered loudly. "I won't tell anyone!" She put her hands over her mouth and giggled through them. Soon after, when Falisa complained of being hungry again, they headed belowdecks to get her something to eat.

The Prince was sleeping when they returned, and Reydin laid out a small repast on the table near the porthole before waking him.

"Not hungry," the older mer moaned. Reydin touched his forehead and found it burning with fever. Alarmed he shook the Prince's shoulder. "Leave me be," Garvar groaned.

"What's going on?" Reydin asked. "Is it sea-sickness?"

"No," the Prince muttered. "Swamp fever. Imperials have a fancy name for it: _malaria._ Got it as a young mer. It comes and goes."

"This isn't good," Reydin worried. "I don't have Restoration spells. We can't let the Captain know or he'll put us off in the middle of nowhere."

"Have to ride it out," the Prince shuddered. "I've done it before."

"He got real sick last year," Falisa said. "I was scared." Her large, green eyes were worried now.

Reydin could hardly imagine what that must have been for the girl. Her only guardian, gravely ill, unable to care for her.

"Take some water, at least," Reydin urged the Prince now. "I'll see if I can't get some fruit juice or broth or something from the galley."

"Just water," Garvar sighed, groaning as he shifted position.

"Falisa," Reydin beckoned the child over. She jumped off the chair and came up to him. Squatting down, he asked her quietly, "You said this happened before?"

"Uh-huh!" Falisa nodded. "Last summer, when I was only five. I think he was sick in the winter, too. He coughed a lot, but he didn't have to stay in bed."

Reydin nodded. "I want you to stay here and try to get him to drink some water, okay? I'm going to the galley to see if they've got something else he can have."

"Is Garvar going to be okay?" she whimpered, frightened.

"I'm going to do everything I can for him," Reydin promised. As he left the cabin, he locked the door behind him. _Dammit! This couldn't come at a worse time!_ Without the Prince, any hope of uniting a Bosmeri resistance would be gone.

He made his way to the galley and spoke to the ship's cook, an Imperial woman named Dorcas.

"I'm too busy feeding this crew to make special dishes," she scowled.

"It doesn't need to be special," Reydin insisted. "Just some broth or something."

"Look, we're coming up on a storm, see?" Dorcas said impatiently. "Can't you feel the swells?"

Indeed, it seemed the deck beneath his feet was rolling a bit more frequently, and more insistently.

"I've got to secure this galley," the cook went on. "You'd best return to your cabin and wait it out. If we're still here afterwards," she barked an unpleasant laugh, "maybe I'll be able to cook. Until then, get out of my galley!"

Fuming, Reydin returned to the cabin. Falisa was still trying to get Prince Garvar to drink some water, and looked up hopefully at his entrance.

Pasting a smile on his face, Reydin put the child in the overhead hammock. It would be the safest place for her. "They're really busy down there right now," he said as calmly as he could. "And the ship is going to start pitching and rolling soon."

"Pitching?" the child asked.

Reydin nodded. "Yes, there's some rain coming, and the sea becomes very restless," he said, "like you, when you've been in the cabin too long." Falisa giggled. "The sea wants to play, so she starts making big waves and little ones, and our little ship here has to go up one and come down the other."

Falisa's eyes were wide, but she didn't seem afraid. _Good_ , Reydin thought. _If it's just a squall, we can ride it out quickly. If it's bigger than that, the Captain will be looking for a safe harbor somewhere…if there's one to be found._

His main worry was the Prince. The mer's condition didn't look good. Falisa confirmed he hadn't taken any of the water she offered him, and with the storm approaching, all they could do was ride it out and pray.

It was a bad storm. Not as bad as some Reydin remembered, but bad enough. In preparation, he had lashed the Prince down to his bunk, and snuffed out the oil lantern hanging overhead. The ship creaked and groaned, and the winds howled around them like Daedra trying to find a way in. Falisa screamed in terror, and Reydin managed to stagger over to her hammock and pull her out, cradling her in his arms and speaking soothingly to her until she stopped screaming. She didn't stop trembling, though.

The Prince was thrown about, as well, but as he was tied securely to the bunk, he didn't fall out. It went on for several hours and into the night, before it finally blew itself out and the ship's crew could secure the vessel. The Steward knocked on their cabin door, and Reydin answered it.

"Everyone alright?" the Steward asked, mildly. A seasoned veteran of the waves, the storm had little impact on him.

"We're fine," Reydin said. "Except my companion over there in the bed is ill. Malaria," he qualified, using the Imperial word. That got a reaction. The Steward raised an eyebrow.

"My sincere condolences," he said. "But we don't have a Healer on board – at least, not anymore. She got washed overboard during the storm. We don't have a Shrine, either."

"How long will we layover in Senchal?" Reydin asked.

"Well…" the Steward prevaricated. "That's the other thing. We were blown off course during the storm. We won't be going to Senchal after all. We'll head straight to Leyawiin as soon as the Captain and the First Mate figure out where we are." He paused. "On the bright side, we believe we may be ahead of schedule."

With that, the Imperial bowed and went on his way down the passageway, checking on the other passengers.

That night, when the moons had both set, Reydin woke from a drowse to hear the Prince calling him.

"Need to tell you," he whispered, his face haggard and drawn, "I won't make it to Leyawiin."

"Yes, you will!" Reydin contradicted. "Don't talk like that. Think of Falisa! She needs you!"

"Falisa, yes," Garvar coughed. "She's the important one. Not me. Not this broken-down old mer."

"What are you saying?" the Nightingale intoned, suspicion stirring.

"She's the one," the old mer insisted. "Not me. I'm not the Prince."

"But you—"

"Safer to let you believe that," Garvar said. "Falisa is the Princess. Her father and mother escaped the Thalmor invasion in the year 29 of this era. I was their guard. Helped keep them hidden, kept them safe." He coughed again, more insistently this time.

"I don't understand," Reydin complained, shaking his head. "What happened to them? How did you end up with Falisa?"

"Prince Ellain and Princess Meravyne knew the Thalmor were getting closer," Garvar explained weakly. Every breath seemed to be a labor for him, but he was determined to tell someone the truth. "Falisa was born the year before. She would have slowed them down. I said I'd take the baby to our new safehouse. Ellain and Meravyne never made it. Thalmor got them."

"And you've been running ever since?" Reydin surmised.

Garvar nodded. "The Thalmor were never after me, except as a way to get to her. You _must_ protect her, Reydin! Promise me!"

"Hush," Reydin soothed. "I promise. But how will I prove to anyone who she is?" he asked.

"Belt pouch," Garvar said, plucking at it futilely. "Papers of genealogy. Prove her birthright."

"They still might say I picked up any child out of the street," Reydin protested.

"Look at her eyes," Garvar whispered, fading fast. "She's a Greensinger. All the line of Tanessi are Greensingers."

With a shock, Reydin realized Garvar was right. And he himself had noticed the child's deep green eyes. If she truly _was_ a Greensinger, it would more than prove her birthright. But of course, she would need training, and that would require ensuring she survived past puberty. Greensingers never developed their abilities until after they came of age.

"Garvar, I—" Reydin broke off, as he realized the old mer would never hear his question. "Be one with nature, faithful servant," he murmured.

"Why won't Garvar wake up?"

Reydin turned to see Falisa perched on the edge of the bunk, where she had fallen asleep after the storm.

"Falisa, I…I'm sorry," he stammered uncharacteristically. "I'm afraid Garvar can't look after you anymore."

"Will you look after me?" the child asked soberly.

Reydin nodded. "Yes, Falisa. I'll look after you from now on."

She put her small hand in his larger one. "That's alright, then," she announced, and gave his hand a squeeze. She hopped off the bed and leaned over Garvar's form to kiss him on the forehead. "Good-bye, Garvar," she whispered. "Thank you for taking care of me!"

Then she threw herself into Reydin's arms and keened out her grief.

Over her head, the heart-hardened Nightingale blinked rapidly. It wouldn't be easy, he knew. He had obligations back in Cyrodiil, and the Boss certainly wouldn't be happy about this. But he knew this was something he had to do personally. He owed that much to the future of his people.

They buried Garvar at sea, and several of the Bosmeri crew said prayers for his soul in their own language, even though they never knew the mer. A week later they had navigated through the Lower Niben estuary, the Niben Bay and the Upper Niben, and into Lake Rumare, where they finally put into port at the waterfront. The Imperial City loomed across the causeway, and Falisa's eyes grew wide. Her new blue dress was not too rich, but certainly better than the shabby brown robe she had been wearing. A quick shopping trip in Leyawiin, and a word or two to Jasper to send on ahead of him, and Reydin knew things would be ready for them when they arrived.

"That's a big city!" she exclaimed, in the understatement of the year, and Reydin chuckled.

"That it is, young lady," he smiled. "And it's your new home now."

"All of it?" she asked in awe.

"Just a small part," he qualified. "I need to speak with some friends of mine and we'll get you all set up."

"Are you going to be there?" she asked, worried.

Reydin nodded. "Absolutely," he said firmly. "Garvar appointed me your guardian, so you're my responsibility now."

"That's alright, then," she said, taking his hand and skipping down the quay towards the causeway. Reydin allowed himself to be carried along, uncertain what the future might bring, but knowing in his heart it was the right decision.

* * *

Cyrus and Dante took a ship from Sentinel to Taneth, and made the trip in a week. It would have taken them longer had they gone by the road. As they approached the city, Dante noted that it was at least as large as Hegathe, but significantly smaller than Sentinel. That was about all he could see, as the sun was setting and the shops were closing up for the night.

"Are you familiar at all with the city?" Dante asked Cyrus.

"I've been here a time or two," the young Redguard admitted. "I did a few merc jobs in this area a couple of years ago."

"Can you get me to Azanir's palace?"

"That's easily done," Cyrus shrugged. "Getting there is not a problem. Getting _in_ might be problematic. Getting _out,_ if they catch you going somewhere you shouldn't be going, will be damned near impossible."

"They won't catch me," Dante assured him. "What areas are usually off limits?"

"The hareem, for one," Cyrus said. "Prince Azanir had many concubines."

"But you said his cousin, Princess Nazreen, is in charge now," Dante reminded him. "She wouldn't have kept—"

"Nazreen prefers the…company of women," Cyrus supplied helpfully, enjoying the look of surprise that crossed the Breton thief's face.

"I see," Dante mused. "It's none of my business whose company she enjoys, but thank you for letting me know it might be an area to avoid."

"What do you want me to do?" Cyrus asked, but before Dante could respond he said sourly, "No, wait, don't tell me. I know. Stay quiet and stay out of trouble."

"Don't sound so upset," Dante remonstrated, slipping out of the Hammerfell gear he wore to reveal the Nightingale armor underneath. "You wanted my help to clear your name. This is how it's done."

"By stealth?" Cyrus argued. "By sneaking in and stealing whatever proof you find?"

"Whenever possible," the Grey Fox affirmed. "Now find a place to lay low and let me do what I do best."

He pulled the hood over his face and slipped away into the shadows, and even Cyrus, who had stood right next to him, never heard him leave. Shaking his head in frustration, the Redguard jerked his keffiyeh closer around his face and went in search of a tavern in which to pass the time.

The stone and plaster wall that surrounded Princess Nazreen's estate was approximately twelve feet high and surmounted by gilded spikes that gleamed in the dying light of the sun. Dante prowled the perimeter, fading into the shadows every time a guard patrol walked by, taking careful note of the frequency of the patrols.

From the other side of the wall, Dante could hear a curious sound that he couldn't put a name to. It was almost like someone coughing, but didn't sound human. Not wanting to jump head-first into an unknown situation, he opted instead to try and find a side gate he could slip through. There was one, on the southern side of the estate, and the master lock easily gave up its resistance to Dante's unbreakable picks. He quickly re-locked the door behind him to allay any suspicions should someone come around and check the gate. The passage beyond was a covered gallery leading up to the main house itself. Looking over the railing, he realized the garden beyond was sunken below the level of the street, and large, quadrupedal shapes slinked about in the shadows. One of them coughed and shook itself, a huge mane of hair whipping around its head.

 _Lions?_ Dante grimaced to himself. _She keeps lions? I wonder what the Khajiit feel about that?_

One of the lions – a female, he noted, because she lacked a mane – lifted her head and sniffed, rumbling a soft growl. Dante quickly checked the wind direction and realized he was upwind.

 _Time to go overland,_ he thought, and leaped for the edge of the gallery roof, flipping himself up and over on top of it. Getting to his feet, he carefully and quickly made his way to an upper balcony and leaped for the low wall encircling it. A moment later he was on the tiled floor, looking down into the garden. He could hear voices from somewhere below him as the grunting and coughing of the lions alerted the guards.

 _Crap,_ he thought sourly. He had hoped to do this without being noticed. He crouched against the corner of the balcony wall and remained unmoving.

"I don't know what's got them all excited," one of the guards said below. "I don't see anything out there."

"When were they last fed?" another asked. "Maybe they're just hungry."

"Maybe," the first one said doubtfully. "Go ahead and let a few more goats out, though, if you think it'll keep them quiet. Herself gets upset when they make too much noise."

Their voices faded and Dante let out a slow breath of relief.

 _Herself, eh?_ he thought, amused. _Sounds like little Miss Nazreen isn't particularly loved by her servants._ He slipped into the house through the balcony door, which was unlocked. Inside, he let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the room before looking around. It was a salon of some kind, or possibly a guest room. In any case, it was dark and empty, and Dante took a few moments to rummage carefully through drawers and chests without disturbing anything. There were several things that could be considered valuable, but not what he was looking for.

 _Let's think about this a moment, Dante,_ he told himself. _It's been six years since Prince Azanir's death. His cousin Nazreen is in charge now. She's probably tossed all of his things in the fire, unless someone told her to hang on to it. Cyrus said she had advisors. It's possible the advisors knew of his dealings with the Thalmor, and Nazreen knows nothing._

He let his mind explore all the possibilities as he sat on a tapestried chair in a dark corner of the room.

 _If Azanir was involved with the Thalmor, it's possible Cyrus' cousin-once-removed, Iman, was as well. Azanir likely had an office, where he conducted his day-to-day business, when the war wasn't going on. Nazreen may or may not be using it now. Private offices usually have safes of some kind, either hidden or out in the open. That's the first place I should look._

Having made his decision, Dante went to the door of the room and tested the handle. It opened easily, and he peered out into the corridor beyond. It was well-lit, and he cursed his luck. He'd have to use magic, or invoke Nocturnal's blessing, to get to the office. He opted for magic, hoping no one here would sense its use. His patron's blessing was a last resort, as he could only use it once per day.

Slipping into the hallway, he quickly and silently closed the door behind him before firing off a spell of Invisibility. It would only last for a few minutes, he knew, but certainly long enough to get him down to the first floor where the office was likely to be. He moved down the corridor, resisting the urge to check the other doors along the way. At the end, it opened into a mezzanine overlooking the grand entrance hall. Open arches led out to a courtyard beyond, lit up with mage lights. The grand hall itself was richly carpeted in a deep indigo wool into which designs of silver had been woven, and Dante felt his fingers itch, though he knew there would be no way to roll up an entire grand hall's worth of carpeting to take home with him.

Two curving staircases descended to the floor below, on either side of the mezzanine, and as he crept, crouching, down one side, Dante could see guards flanking the arches that supported the roof overhead. They faced either direction, with the one on the far side looking towards him. His Invisibility ran out, and Dante froze, but after a moment he realized the guard had not noticed him. Still, it would be difficult to get past both of them to get to the interior halls to look for the office.

Movement from above caught his attention, and a woman's voice called out to the guards below.

"Hey, chuckle-head!" she slurred drunkenly. "Bring us up another case of wine! Herself is getting thirsty."

"Stupid cow," the guard closest to Dante muttered. "I can't leave my post," he called.

"Maybe you dint hear me, puke-guts!" the courtesan called. "I said, 'Herself wants wine.' Now go and get some up here, or _you_ can explain t' her why she's out of drunk…drink." She stumbled back to whichever room she had emerged from.

"Fat, drunken slob," the guard grumbled. "Pashan," he called across the hall. "Keep an eye on things. I'll be back in a bit."

"I don't envy you, Levi," Pashan called. "We all know which way Herself swings, but her girls ain't particular."

"I'm a family man," Levi said stiffly. He stomped off, muttering to himself. "The things I do for money…"

As soon as Levi was gone, Dante silently cast his Invisibility once more and without a sound made it around the corner of the stairs, past Pashan and into the recesses of the labyrinthine corridors under the mezzanine.

These rooms were not well-lit, with only an occasional oil lamp here and there. The cool, tile floors would have echoed his footsteps up and down the halls, but his soft Nightingale boots were enchanted against such mishaps. Once or twice, a servant hurried through, but it was easy enough to slip into a dark corner or alcove and remain unseen. He tested each door, peering into the rooms beyond without finding his goal, until he came across one door that was locked. Again, the master lock was no match for his skills, and it opened easily under his touch. He closed it behind him and looked around. Dust an inch thick lay everywhere in here.

 _No one's been in here for quite a while,_ he realized. Going to the window, he drew the heavy brocade curtains shut, making sure no light could seep through the cracks. He found a tapestry hanging next to the door and tore it off the wall, rolling it up and pushing it against the bottom of the heavy oak door. Only once he was sure he wouldn't alert anyone from outside the room did he fire off a Candlelight spell and begin a systematic search.

The desk yielded nothing, and neither did the chest behind it. There was a safe, but it was magically locked.

 _What was that spell I used in Vilverin?_ he pondered. He calmed his mind and took his thoughts back to that day he had used a forgotten spell to open an arcane lock. _That's right!_ he remembered in satisfaction. He summoned the energy within him and released it with a word and a gesture at the lock.

With a quiet click, it opened. He shuffled through the papers before his Candlelight winked out, satisfied with what he'd found. There was more than enough evidence here to exonerate Cyrus and clear his name. Dante decided to take everything and go through it with Cyrus later. He'd already spent too much time here, and didn't want to push his luck. He stuffed the papers in his haversack and closed the safe. He couldn't re-lock this one, regretfully, but was confident he had what he came for.

Instead of sneaking back through the house they way he'd come, Dante opted to leave by the private door leading to the veranda outside. Only once he'd slipped outside and re-locked it did he hear the cough behind him.

Turning slowly, he saw four pairs of glowing eyes regarding him from the garden.

* * *

"Dragonborn?"

Marcus looked up from the book he'd been reading, _Children of the Sky._ A middle-aged Breton woman in a grey robe stood before him, twisting her hands nervously.

"I'm so sorry to bother you—"

"It's fine," Marcus smiled. "It's no bother, really. This book is a bunch of hooey, anyway." He snapped it closed and tossed it onto a nearby table.

"'Hooey'?"

"It's…not accurate at all," he explained. "The powers they ascribe to all Nords simply doesn't exist, in my experience. Not all Nords can Shout, and if there's a _thu'um_ out there that can sharpen blades, I'd sure love to know it. Anyway, what can I do for you?"

"I'm the Auger here," the woman said. "My name is Elsbette. I was scrying recently, and I saw your coming here. I tried to tell the others, but…well, they don't take me seriously."

"My wife, Tamsyn, is a Seer," Marcus nodded. "I always take her seriously. She's saved my bacon on more than one occasion."

"Do you like bacon that much?" Elsbette inquired, confused.

"I mean she's saved my life," Marcus qualified. "Sorry. I have, as a friend once pointed out to me, some colorful euphemisms. So, I assume you have something you want to tell me?"

"Yes," Elsbette said, tucking a strand of her graying hair behind her ear. "Could you…would you come with me? I need to show you something."

Marcus nodded and followed Elsbette into a smaller cavern, hewn out of the rock of the cliff in which Storm Talon Temple now made its home. The chamber was small, not more than eight or ten feet across, and only a bit more than that in depth. A table was pushed against one wall, and a shallow bowl of water sat upon it. A neatly stitched patchwork quilt hung in the doorway for privacy, and Marcus noticed the cot in the corner.

"This is your room?" he asked.

"Yes," Elsbette said. "It's where I meditate and scry and…and _See_ things. Notice the veins of quartz in the rock?"

Looking closer, Marcus could see fine lines of the crystals running through the walls.

"Somehow it helps me to See things more clearly here," the Auger said. "Anyway, what I wanted to show you was this."

She led him to the bowl and took a handful of powder from a pouch at her belt, tossing it into the water. Marcus coughed briefly at the fumes which rose into the air.

"Yes, that's another reason I do my scrying in here," Elsbette said wryly. "The others complained of the fumes. Sorry about that."

"Don't worry," he chuckled, still coughing a little. "What am I seeing?"

"Look into the bowl," she said.

Marcus did. At first, he could see nothing. But the swirling miasma soon parted, and he saw a thatched cottage by a dockside. He recognized the cottage.

"That's Clarice's house!" he exclaimed. "I thought it burned to the ground?"

"It did," Elsbette said. "What you're seeing happened two nights ago."

Wondering how that was possible, Marcus watched as three figures surrounded the cottage. Two were in golden armor; one wore the familiar black robes of a Thalmor Justiciar. As he watched, the two soldiers cast spells at the doors, front and back. The Justiciar cast a firebolt at the roof. They watched for several minutes before turning and walking away, unhurried.

"Thalmor!" Marcus bit out. "We thought it was House Montrose!"

"The Dominion had been following you, Dragonborn," Elsbette said. "They had no idea Clarice was there. It was you they were after."

Guilt slammed into him. Clarice had almost died because of him.

"I sense your sorrow, Dragonborn," Elsbette said. "But please, don't be upset. If you had not sought Clarice out, she might have stayed there the rest of her life. She might never have come back to us."

"Maybe," Marcus replied, shaking his head slowly. "But I came here, not just to look for her for a…a friend, but also to see what I could find out about Dominion interference in Breton politics."

"You'll have to talk to the Grand Master about that," Elsbette shrugged. "I'm just the Auger nobody pays any attention to."

"Why is that?" Marcus demanded. "If we had you back in Skyrim, we'd be consulting you often. The Auger of Dunlaine at the College of Winterhold only talks to my wife occasionally, and to no one else. Even Tamsyn keeps a closed mouth about a lot of the things she knows."

"It's because of who we are, Dragonborn," Elsbette explained, waving her hands helplessly. "We can see the past, see the trends of the present, and sometimes we can see the future. But it's never very precise, never very clear. And sometimes, when people get the answers they think they want, it affects what may be, which can change. Then they look at us like we're the ones who made the mistake."

Marcus nodded. "I understand, Elsbette. And thank you for showing me this. It explains a few things."

He returned to Clarice and told her what the Auger had told him.

"Well, it doesn't excuse what House Montrose did all those years ago," Clarice said bitterly, "but I can't lay this one at their door."

"I'm sorry I put you in danger," he apologized sincerely.

"Oh, posh," she dismissed. "You got me out of there. That's more than repayment enough. We won't talk any more about that." She patted his arm and left him to assist the healers with potion brewing.

Grand Master Jurard was surprised when Marcus inquired of him about his main objective.

"Dominion involvement?" he echoed. "No, I can honestly say any unrest in High Rock is of our own creation."

"But we had received reports in Skyrim—" Marcus began, but Jurard cut him off.

"Marcus, we _live_ here. We Blades may be in hiding, but we have operatives all over our Province. We would know if the Thalmor were here. If you received word that the Dominion was in one place, wouldn't it make you want to look and see where _else_ they might be mobilizing?"

"I'm not sure I'm following you," the Dragonborn said.

"You can ride a dragon, so you've said," the Grand Master smiled. "I should think that from the air, it should be fairly obvious if they are moving troops around. So, go to the Summerset Isles and see what the Dominion isn't showing the rest of Tamriel."

* * *

Dante leaped for the top of the wall and hung onto the spires at the top. Below him, four pairs of gleaming eyes watched him, and four sets of razor-sharp claws flexed, waiting to dig into his soft flesh and drag him down. He had never run so fast in his life as he had with four lions chasing him across Nazreen's garden. But Lady Luck was with him one last time. The lions had not resisted his Pacify spell, and it had given him enough time to dash across the open area and leap to the safety of the wall. Clambering quickly over the spires, he dropped down on the other side and disappeared into the shadows, searching for an inn or tavern, close to where he'd left Cyrus.

He found the Redguard in a small, seaside tavern with the unlikely name of the Crimson Crustacean. The food – mainly seafood – was surprisingly good, and as they ate, Dante briefed Cyrus quietly on what had occurred.

"I have some information, too," Cyrus said.

"Oh?" Dante lifted an eyebrow.

"While you were gone, I made some discreet inquiries about the situation here, and about Princess Nazreen."

"And?"

"It seems she is not well-loved by the people here," Cyrus said.

"I kind of gathered that while I was inside," Dante murmured.

"In addition, she seems to have fallen out of favor with the Crown," the young Redguard said. "Her excesses and exotic appetites have offended their sensibilities, and they called for her to present herself to them in Sentinel – last week."

"Last week?"

"Yes," Cyrus nodded vigorously, happily drizzling honey on another spiced cheese biscuit. "She refused their 'kind invitation,' preferring instead to continue pursuing her other pleasures."

"I thought she had advisors?" Dante asked.

"She did," his companion affirmed in a low voice, "but she fired them as soon as she became of age. She turned twenty-one last month. Her household staff has been leaving her one by one. She has not replaced them."

"That's why it was so easy to get in and out," Dante mused.

"Easy?" Cyrus chuckled. "You call lions in the garden 'easy'?"

"Well, _easier_ than it would have been if the place had been fully staffed," the Grey Fox grinned. "What will happen now, do you think?"

"Nazreen will either drink and drug herself into an early grave," Cyrus replied, shaking his head at the waste of a life, "or one of Azanir's other distant relatives may step in and relieve her of her position before she squanders the family fortune. Either way, it's none of my business. What did the papers say?"

"Not here," Dante said. "We'll discuss those later."

Cyrus nodded, and the two men finished their meal and retired to Cyrus' room. Dante had elected to leave as soon as his mission here was done.

"Now," said Cyrodiil's Guild Master, after locking the door and throwing a Muffle spell at it, "take a look at these."

He pulled the documents he had stolen from his backpack and presented them to Cyrus, who read through them carefully.

"It's all here," Cyrus smiled. "It's really all here! Azanir conspired with Lady Arannelya before the fall of Taneth. She withdrew her forces, making my Great-Uncle's daughter, Iman, believe she had gone. Iman ordered the gates to be opened, so the people could scour the countryside for anything edible, as the entire city was starving, and while most of them were out, Lady Arannelya's forces returned from hiding and entered the city. Azanir accused Iman of conspiring with them, branding her a traitor, and the city came under Dominion control. Iman disappeared…we never knew what happened to her…but it says here that she was executed. Azanir was held under 'house arrest,' but still enjoyed all the privileges of freedom of movement within the city."

"Does it say anything about the Alik'r going after _your_ cousin, Saadia?" Dante asked, curious.

"Yes," Cyrus said, shuffling the documents. "After I killed Azanir, his advisors sent word to the Crown of what happened, and they put a bounty on my head. That bounty extended to my cousin, Iman – or rather, Saadia – and her family. Because of my quick action, however, my aunt and uncle were able to get out of Sentinel before they could be apprehended. Saadia moved around quite a bit during that time, but stayed in Hammerfell, hoping it was all a mistake. Like me, I suppose, she hoped to establish her innocence. Azanir's advisors hired Alik'r warriors to capture us both. The Alik'r, being hired mercenaries, didn't know all the details of what occurred; they only knew they were being paid to find her. At some point, they confused my cousin with our other relative who was tricked into letting the Dominion capture Taneth, and no one corrected them."

"A lot of misunderstandings and confusion," Dante commented. "Well, I assume you can handle it from here?" he continued. "You've got what you needed."

"I do indeed," Cyrus said. "You'll be leaving in the morning, then?"

"Sooner, rather. I need to get back to the Imperial City," Dante nodded.

"If you ever need assistance with anything while you're in Hammerfell, look me up," Cyrus said, taking the Nightingale's hand and shaking it. "Thank you for everything, my friend."

"I'll keep it in mind," Dante smiled, returning the handshake. "I may call upon your assistance at some point in the future. You never know. Good luck!"

With that, he left the room and the tavern, and headed to the nearest stable to find a carriage to take him to Markarth.

* * *

Marcus walked into the entryway of Vlindrel Hall with Clarice right behind him. They had stayed with the Blades of Storm Talon Temple for another two weeks, to set the wheels in motion for the Alliance's plans against the Dominion. He sent word by courier to Tamsyn to let her know he'd 'lost the earring she'd given him,' letting her know the reason for his silence. He also informed her he'd be bringing a friend home with him.

Clarice gazed at Vlindrel Hall in all its stony splendor and gave a hum of approval. Inside, she was welcomed warmly by Tamsyn and Bothela, who was there checking on Tamsyn's progress.

The old Breton woman sighed. "Oh, I do love babies!" she smiled.

Dante showed up two days later, and it was a tearful reunion on Clarice's part with her former charge, and Marcus was sure he saw Greyshadow's throat working hard.

"You're coming back to Cyrodiil with me," he insisted. "A lot of things have changed. The Emperor knows who I am now – all of it, really." He flinched at the scowl Nonna shot him, and Marcus hid a smile of amusement. There had been a long, private talk between the two, and though Nonna disapproved, it seemed she had forgiven him. "I have a very nice house in the heart of the city that will be at your disposal, Nonna. I won't take 'no' for an answer," he insisted, holding up a hand when she made to object. "As for later, after the Emperor is gone, well…we'll have to see who's still around when that happens. A lot can change between now and then, and we don't want to get ahead of ourselves."

They left three days later, but not before Marcus insisted Clarice come down to the training yards outside the city gates with him and show him how to fight with a quarterstaff. She was an excellent instructor, and soon had both the Dragonborn and the Nightingale sparring against each other. They were evenly matched, and eventually both called it a draw, rubbing their bruises.

After they departed for Cyrodiil, Marcus sat down to write coded messages to the key members of the Alliance: Balgruuf, Tullius, Madanach, and Ulfric Stormcloak. Balgruuf's letter was longer and more personal.

" _I can't believe I found an entire Temple of Blades still in existence,"_ he wrote his oldest friend in Skyrim, _"but it gives me hope for the future. Now we have eyes watching our backs in High Rock, and that's all I really hoped to accomplish there. I'm sure we'll have to speak to each individual King at some point, but until we hear differently, we know the Province is with us, and will come to our aid when called._

" _As for Hammerfell, we can only wait and see if Greyshadow was able to persuade them to help us. We know they hate the Thalmor. Hopefully that will be enough, especially if they know their only other option is extinction. For now, we play the waiting game. Yours, sincerely, Marcus."_

* * *

"You're certain you want to do this?" the Grey Fox asked.

"I have to," Reydin Glane said firmly. "Old Garvar appointed me as Falisa's guardian, and it's imperative that she survives to adulthood. She's not just the rightful heir to the Bosmeri throne, Boss, she's a Greensinger."

Dante slowly shook his head. "I don't know what that means," he admitted. "I assume it's important."

"Greensingers are rare," Reydin explained. "They're the ones who speak to the trees and encourage them to grow into the shapes and forms we need. Because of the Green Pact, we Bosmer don't cut down trees to use as building materials. Instead, the Greensingers talk to them, and persuade them to give us anything from containers to bows, from ships to villages."

"I…see…" Dante pondered the implications of this. Across the chamber of the Ayleid ruin under the Imperial City, where the Cyrodiil Thieves' Guild held its headquarters, the young Bosmeri child was getting an archery lesson from Minnow, who had fashioned a child-sized longbow for her. "How well known is it that the line of – what did you call it? Tareshi?"

"Tadessi," Reydin corrected.

"Tadessi, yes," Dante mused. "How many know that the line of Tadessi are Greensingers?"

Reydin shrugged. "Practically any Bosmer would know. Maybe some of the younger ones wouldn't."

"Does the child know?"

Reydin shook his head. "No. I don't think Garvar ever told her. And I won't, either. Not until she needs to know."

Dante blew out a breath. "Well, this puts us in a bind, you see. I can't be short a Nightingale here, and you know Nocturnal will never let you out of your contract."

The wood elf's jaw clenched stubbornly. "I'm aware of that. It doesn't matter. You'll have to find someone else to take my place in the Guild. As for Nocturnal…well…" He waved his hands helplessly. "Maybe she'll let me take a sabbatical until Falisa is old enough to claim her rightful place."

"Don't bet the farm on that," Dante said sourly. "But there might be a way we can make this work. Where were you going to take her? She can't stay here in the Guild."

"I was going to buy a house, perhaps outside of town. Maybe in Weye."

"You've been skimming that much money?" Dante asked, grinning at the indignant snort from his fellow Nightingale.

"I don't skim," Reydin said primly. "Minnow would be on to me in a second if I did."

Dante glanced over to the diminutive young woman patiently correcting the stance and posture of the small Bosmer princess, who wasn't much smaller than her.

"How old is she?" he asked.

"Six," Reydin replied. "According to her papers, almost seven."

"That young?" the Guildmaster exclaimed, surprised. "She looks much older." The child was already as tall as a twelve-year-old Imperial girl.

"She's a mer," his second replied. "Elven children grow quickly, but mature more slowly. She won't be considered an adult until she's at least thirty years old."

As for Minnow: she was something of an enigma. No one, including her, knew much about her parentage and background. She was as small as a Breton, and seemed to be good with magic, when she chose to use it, but she was as persuasive as any Imperial merchant when attempting to make a deal. Her brown skin seemed to point to some Redguard in her blood, but her blonde hair was a clear indication of some Nordic heritage. Somewhere in that mixed bag of races, she had developed a keen mind and a short temper, especially when she felt someone was attempting to take advantage of her.

"So, what's your idea?" Reydin prompted.

"As it happens," Dante said lightly, "I have a house-guest who would love to feel as though she once more has a purpose in life."

"Clarice?" Reydin blurted. "Your old nurse?" His eyebrows did a skeptical dance across his forehead. "Pardon me for saying this, Boss, as I'm sure she's a nice lady and all, but—"

"She's a former Blade."

Reydin stopped whatever he'd been about to say.

"You're…kidding," he managed.

Dante chuckled. "Yeah, I know," he grinned ruefully. "It surprised the daedra out of me when I found out last month. All that time I was growing up under her care, and I never knew!"

"Well..uh…" the Bosmer thief stammered. "I mean, would she be willing? It would allow me to stay here, and it would set my mind at ease, knowing Falisa is safe."

"I think I can convince her," Dante hid a smug smile. "Let's take the child over there this afternoon… _after_ her archery lesson, of course."

"Of course," Reydin grinned, satisfied. "She's a Bosmer, after all. She needs to learn how to use a bow. Maybe I'll ask Minnow if she'd be willing to continue those lessons after Falisa gets settled in."

"You ask her," Dante smirked, knowing Minnow. "I'm staying out of that one!"

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Holy mackerel! Was the muse ever with me! I banged this out in four days! I hope you're all still with me. I know this was a long one, but I couldn't find a way to separate it logically. Next up, we begin "For the Glory of the Empire," which is the second part of "Into the Light." Time moves up to sometime after the events of "Into the Ashes," when the final push against the Dominion begins. Thanks for reading, and please give a review if you like what you've read so far!]_


	9. Chapter 9

**Into the Light, Part 2: For the Glory of the Empire**

 **Chapter 1**

 _[Throughout this series I have mainly stayed with the vanilla game. However, as we move beyond what is canon to Bethesda (and all characters and concepts original to the game are their property, by the way) I have decided to include elements of some mods I have added to my own game; in this case, "Immersive College at Winterhold" factors in. It's one of my favorite mods._

 _In addition, I added another scene to my previous chapter, because I thought of it after I posted said previous chapter. It was going to be the start of this one, but it made more sense to put it back there. So please, go back and take a look. It just sort of ties up another loose end. Thank you! – AN]_

* * *

 _Present Day – 6_ _th_ _Frostfall, 4E 208_

"Happy birthday, Papa!" Lucia beamed as she carefully handed over a large, long, wicker basket to Marcus.

"Wow! Thank you, Luci!" Marcus grinned. "How did you know I wanted to go on a picnic…in the middle of winter?"

Lucia giggled. "Oh, papa, it's not a picnic basket! And it's not winter, yet. It's only autumn! It's the only thing I could find big enough to hold it so you wouldn't guess what it is!"

"You've been walking past it for a week, dear," Tamsyn said smugly. "It was hiding in plain sight in her room."

Marcus rolled his eyes. "She could have had anything in there," he said defensively. "Another pet, dirty laundry, a body—"

"A body!" Lucia gasped indignantly, but her eyes sparkled. "I'm not like Uncle Cicero!"

"Hey, now," Marcus frowned. "How do you know anything about Uncle Cicero?"

"Oh, Papa, don't be so stuffy," Lucia dismissed. "I've known what he does for quite some time now. And I'm not upset about it. He's always been kind to me and the others. I know he'd never do anything to hurt us."

"I'm not stuffy," Marcus grumbled. "I just didn't want you knowing about all that stuff."

Lucia leaned over and put her arms around his waist, hugging him tight. "Papa, I love you, but you can't protect me from the world forever. I'm going to be a Bard, remember? Now, open your present! Master Inge and I worked on this for almost a year to get it right."

"Inge Six-Fingers?" Marcus wondered, opening the basket. He peeled back the layers of cloth padding and gasped. Inside, cushioned with fleece and cloth, was a six-string guitar. Not a lute, with its double-course of strings, bowled back and angled neck, but a bona fide acoustic guitar, just like the old Gibson he used to play when he was a boy back in Gaea.

"Lucia…I…" Marcus choked as he pulled it out. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. The woods gleamed, and the abalone inlay around the sound hole and along the neck sparkled as they caught the illumination from the mage lights permanently anchored overhead. The tuning screws were hand-carved from ivory, as was the bridge that anchored the steel wire strings. "How…?" he gasped.

"Do you like it, Papa?" the thirteen-year-old asked anxiously.

"Like it?" Marcus whispered, then gently set the guitar aside and scooped his daughter in his arms, burying his head in her neck. His thirtieth birthday was turning out to be quite satisfying. He knew this body he was in was thirty years old, because his age had been one of the things he had asked Octavian, its original owner, when they spoke in Sovngarde after he had defeated Alduin. "Thank you, sweetheart! It's beautiful!" He kissed her forehead and hugged her again.

"You haven't even played it yet!" Tamsyn quavered a laugh, her eyes wet with unshed tears.

"I don't understand how?" Marcus queried, blotting his eyes with the back of his hand. "How did you even know to make this?"

"It was Mama's idea," Lucia bubbled. "She drew the design for me, and we talked to Master Inge to see if it could be done. Mama told her that when you were a boy you had one like this, and the strings were made of wire, and not sinew or gut, like mine. Master Inge got really excited about the idea of making the strings from wire, so she spoke with Master Beirand over at the smithy, and he said he could do it, but they wouldn't be that strong."

Tamsyn took up the story from there. "I told Beirand that the wires could be made stronger by braiding and twisting them into tiny cables. If a jeweler can do it, a smith certainly could. He took up the gauntlet I threw down and by the end of a month, we had our guitar strings."

"Master Inge was _very_ excited about them," Lucia repeated. "She wants to refit all the lutes at the college with steel strings, now. She tested your guitar for a solid month, playing the most complicated pieces, and she seldom had to re-tune it, or replace the strings."

"In fact, Inge intends to make a guitar for herself, now," Tamsyn chuckled. "You've started a musical revolution in Skyrim, my love."

"Play something, Papa!" Lucia urged. "Play something you used to play when you were a boy. I never get tired of hearing your songs!"

"A lot of them don't translate well," Marcus admitted with a wry smile. He positioned the new guitar and strummed the strings, finding it already well-tuned. He lifted an eyebrow at Lucia, who nodded. Closing his eyes for a moment, he thought back, long before he had come to Skyrim, and found one he thought would work. The short, musical introduction was soft and slow, and Marcus closed his eyes again, feeling the music he was making flow through him as he began to sing in his deep baritone voice.

 _"Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?_

 _You've been out riding fences for so long now._

 _Oh, you're a hard one, but I know that you've got your reasons._

 _These things that are pleasing you can hurt you somehow."_

Tamsyn settled next to Lucia as Marcus' voice rang around the hall. He didn't look at them, but at some distant point, as if singing to something or someone in his past.

 _"Don't you draw the Queen of Diamonds, boy,_

 _She'll beat you if she's able._

 _You know the Queen of Hearts is always your best bet._

 _Now it seems to me some fine things_

 _Have been laid upon your table,_

 _But you only want the ones that you can't get._

" _Desperado, oh you ain't getting no younger,_

 _Your pain and your hunger, they're driving you on._

 _And freedom? Oh, freedom, well that's just some people talking._

 _Your prison is walking through this world all alone."_

Unaware of the attention he was drawing, Marcus sang on, and the new guitar responded willingly under his fingers. Lydia and Gregor came to the doorway, with Kirsten, Korst and Julia toddling quietly into the room after them to sit on their pint-sized chairs by the fire to listen.

 _"Don't your feet get cold in the wintertime?_

 _The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine._

 _It's hard to tell the night time from the day._

 _You're losing all your highs and lows_

 _Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?_

 _"Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?  
Come down from your fences, open the gate._

 _It may be raining, but there's a rainbow above you._

 _You'd better let somebody love you,_

 _Let somebody love you,_

 _You'd better let somebody love you…before it's too….late."_

Lucia sighed. "Papa, that was a wonderful song! I've never heard you play that one before! Will you teach it to me?"

Marcus chuckled. "I never had the right instrument to play it on before," he reasoned. "Thank you, _chica_. I'll treasure this always."

The teen-ager beamed, still pondering the song. "I think I understand what it means, too, Papa. That people shouldn't be alone. That they need to be around others."

Marcus nodded. "That," he agreed, "and that they shouldn't push others away who try to help. No one can go through life all alone. Only by working together can we create the best life for ourselves. And if someone has shown that they care deeply about you, you should give yourself a chance to love them in return. If the spark is there, you'll know it."

"I'll try to remember that, Papa," Lucia smiled, hugging him.

"Daddy," Julia spoke up from her chair. "Will you play 'Pop Goes the Weasel', please?" She had been squirming impatiently in her seat, waiting for the opportunity to interrupt. She had learned, early on, that her daddy felt uncomfortable singing in front of a lot of people, so she would creep in and sit on her little chair by the fire that Gregor had made for her. She'd taught Kirsten and Korst to do the same.

"Mubbery bush!" Korst crowed, his eyes sparkling. As blonde as his sister was brunette, the two-year old was already putting words together into – if not complete sentences, then concepts that most of the other residents of Heljarchen could understand.

"Mongee!" his sister agreed. The two looked at each other and giggled.

There was a loud knocking at the front door, and Lydia excused herself. "I'll see who that is," she said, as Marcus began to play, and three pairs of eyes watched him closely to see if they could catch the "pop" his fingers made on the strings.

Lydia reappeared in the doorway, and Tamsyn quietly left the group to speak with the Steward. Lydia handed her a sealed envelope, and the Breton mage slipped into the study adjacent to the great hall to read it. Barbas followed her.

" _Sheesh!"_ the Daedric dog muttered. _"Don't doze kids evah get tired o' dat song? If I have to hear it one more time…"_

"Hush, Barbas," Tamsyn said unsteadily. Her face had gone completely pale. "Please…go get Marcus."

Without a word, the dog padded out the door. In a minute, there was a chorus of disappointed "ohs" from the youngest inhabitants of Heljarchen as the music stopped and Marcus apologized, promising them more songs later. Gregor and Lydia forestalled any potential fretting by chasing the children outside to play, with Gregor following to watch over them and keep them safe.

"What's up, hun?" Marcus asked he entered the study, Barbas and Lydia on his heels. Tamsyn had slumped into a chair near the fire.

"A courier delivered this," Tamsyn whispered, handing the letter over. She stared into the fire, and he could see unshed tears. Her fists clenched the arms of the chair as he dropped his eyes to the parchment and read the words.

 _"Tamsyn, you need to come at once! The College is under attack! We don't know where they came from, but somehow Daedra have invaded. Tolfdir and Faralda are dead. I don't know about the other faculty. We've had to pull back to the town of Winterhold, but Jarl Korir is threatening to throw all of us over a cliff if we don't leave soon, in spite of Enthir's efforts to assuage him. I tried to contact you our usual way, but there's interference of some kind. Please, come as soon as you get this! – Azura Frostfeather. P.S., DON'T use the portal. It has been compromised."_

"I need to go, now!" Tamsyn insisted, her face a mask of worry and grief.

"We'll go together," Marcus promised. "Let me get into my armor and call Odahviing." He left the study, and Tamsyn could hear his boots thudding across the stone floor of the Hall.

" _I'll meetcha dere,"_ Barbas volunteered. _"Maybe I can be of some help."_

"No, Barbas, please!" Tamsyn called, as the dog prepared to leave the plane of Mundus his own way. Barbas hesitated. "I need you to stay here and guard Heljarchen. Whoever or whatever attacked the College may try here next."

" _A'right,"_ the dog agreed. _"If t'ings get rough here, doe, maybe we c'n make a break for da Tower of Mzark an' get ta Blackreach from dere."_

"Thank you, Barbas," Tamsyn said faintly.

The dog whined and pushed his nose under her hand. _"Maybe it's not as bad as you t'ink?"_ he offered.

The Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold slipped off the chair and knelt down to twine her arms around his neck. "Oh, Barbas," she whispered, her voice catching. "I hope not!"

Fifteen minutes later, Marcus stood in the doorway. He was wearing his dragonplate armor, with Gregor hovering behind him, still fastening the greaves to his Thane's legs.

"Are you ready?" he asked quietly, knowing full well she hadn't moved from the spot.

Tamsyn nodded. She seldom packed for trips these days. Most of the places she would go had plenty of supplies for her, if she needed them.

In the past two years, since Marcus had returned from Solstheim, he had made an effort to become Thane in every hold. Even Korir, Jarl of Winterhold, as much as he disliked Imperials, couldn't deny the Dragonborn the title and right to purchase property after Marcus had found the Helm of Winterhold for him. At one time the Jarl had hoped it could be found in time for him to make a bid for the position of High King of Skyrim, but that was a moot point, now. Still, it was an honored artifact for his Hold, and he grudgingly gave Marcus his blessing.

Since that time, Winterhold was beginning to see a glimmer of prosperity return. With the help of the College and its magics, the town was slowly rebuilding, and people were beginning to come back to the small, northern coastal town.

And now, all of that was in jeopardy, with the College under attack and in chaos, with daedra coming from some unknown source.

Marcus called for Odahviing once they were outside, and both parents hugged and kissed Julia as Marcus explained why they had to leave her.

"We don't know for how long, but we promised we'll try to come back as soon as we can," he said, "so be a good girl for Lydia and Gregor, okay?"

"Are you gonna fight the slug monster?" she asked.

Marcus blinked in confusion. "Slug monster? No, honey, they're daedra, from Oblivion." He threw Tamsyn a questioning look, who shrugged, mystified.

"The slug monster bringed them," Julia said, matter-of-factly. "But the Dead Queen bringed the slug monster."

Tamsyn picked up Julia and rested the child on her hip.

"Sweetheart," she said seriously. "I want you to tell me how you know about this. Who is the Dead Queen? And what slug monster did she send?"

"Her name is Zenosha, Mommy," Julia said with exasperation, as if she expected her mother to already know this. "And it's a big slug with four legs. A…sload, I think he called it?"

"Who, honey?" Marcus insisted. "Who told you about this?"

Julia smiled her sunniest smile. "Grandpa did!" She wriggled to get down, her message delivered.

Slowly, Tamsyn set her daughter down, who ran off to re-join her playmates.

"Did you know about this?" Marcus asked quietly.

Tamsyn shook her auburn head. "No," she breathed. "I had no idea Daddy was talking to her! He only talks to me in my dreams. Perhaps he's doing the same with our daughter. She _is_ his granddaughter, after all."

"Why tell Julia and not you?" her husband wondered.

"I don't know," the Breton mage admitted. "Perhaps he thought it was too risky. The last time we spoke – over a year ago – he said he was taking some heat over guiding you through Apocrypha."

A faint roar, growing louder, was heard in the distance.

"There's our ride," Marcus commented. "Anything you can tell me about what we might encounter?"

Again, Tamsyn shook her head. "We're in uncharted territory, my love," she said. "My divinations lately have been wildly erratic and haven't given me much to go on. Perhaps because we were approaching one of the pivotal points where our actions determine what path the future will take."

"Well, then we'll have to do it the old-fashioned way, I guess," Marcus shrugged. "We'll wing it, like we've always done."

* * *

The trip to Winterhold from Heljarchen was a familiar one to the great red firedrake as he glided over mountains that separated the Pale from Winterhold. High peaks yielded to ice fields that sloped northward to the Sea of Ghosts, and in the distance, rising above all, was the statue of Azura, Daedric Prince of Dusk and Dawn, holding aloft the sun in one hand and a crescent moon in the other. Tamsyn remembered the joy on her friend Azura's face upon seeing the monument to her namesake once more.

As they drew closer to the town, they could see the entire College engulfed in a miasma of angry red smoke and black, claw-like spires that sprouted from the grounds and buildings, and even the causeway itself. A pall of something profoundly evil hung in the air. The streets of the town of Winterhold were deserted, as the people hid in their homes, terrified of this new horror the mages at the College had inflicted upon them. Tamsyn's heart sank as she thought of all the progress she had made with Jarl Korir going down the drain.

"It looks pretty bad," Marcus called above the wind. "Odahviing, fly us around the College first. I want to take a closer look."

Obligingly, the dragon dipped a wing and sheared off towards the fortification on the pinnacle, just off shore. As they approached, they could hear roaring from below, and Marcus saw Daedric Lords scurrying to attack. Large, spider-like creatures wandered the twisted landscape and clung to the sides of the rock that jutted out of the Sea of Ghosts.

"What _are_ those creatures?" Marcus called. "I don't recognize half of them!"

"I do," Tamsyn replied. "I played enough of _Oblivion_ to know what they are. Those small, scrawny creatures are imps; the spider-like ones are spider-daedra, and the lizard-like ones are clannfears. The spiders spit a nasty venom, and if you get too close, they summon smaller versions of themselves to poison you while they keep at a distance. Their poison paralyzes you. The clannfears have incredibly sharp claws and beaks that will treat your armor like a tin can to be opened."

"What about those big guys down there?" Marcus asked, pointing.

"Those are Xivilai," Tamsyn told him. "Fierce warriors, and some can cast spells. Most can usually summon lesser daedra to fight for them."

A glimmer at the top of the Hall of Elements caught Tamsyn's attention, and she called out to the dragon. "Odahviing! I need a closer look at the top of the tower over there!"

The dragon ducked his head in comprehension and swung around to fly closer to the tallest tower of the College. A portal such as Marcus had never seen before burned and glowed, eerie purplish-red light coming from it. As they watched, more daedra came out of the portal.

"A…an Oblivion gate," Tamsyn faltered. "That's how they're coming in!"

"Is that bad?" Marcus asked.

"Really bad," his wife confirmed. "It's how Mehrunes Dagon brought the daedra into Nirn during the Oblivion crisis. They sprang up all over Tamriel."

"So, if we kill all these creatures, more will just spew out of that thing?" Marcus guessed.

Tamsyn nodded miserably. "The only way to close it is to go inside and retrieve the Sigil Stone. I had to do it before…but it was just a game, then." In spite of her fur-lined cloak, she shivered.

As they circled the tower, a host of Xivilai, some armored, some robed, gathered around the gate and began shooting fireballs towards the dragon and his passengers.

"Time to leave, Odahviing!" Marcus called. "Set us down south of the town!"

"Not soon enough for me!" the dragon agreed, wheeling off.

As they touched down, scores of people came out from the inn, many of whom Marcus and Tamsyn recognized. But there were too many missing faces.

"Enthir! Azura! You're safe!" Tamsyn exclaimed in delight, as Odahviing took to the air once more.

"We're fine, Tamsyn," Azura replied, hugging her friend. "But Tolfdir…Faralda…"

"Yes, I read your note," Tamsyn sobered. "Who else?" She hated to ask the question, but needed to know.

"Urag," Enthir answered, subdued. His usual sarcastic nature had been crushed under the severity of their experience. "I couldn't get him to leave the Arcaneum. We also lost Brelyna, Phinis, Sergius…"

"I should have been here," Tamsyn choked.

"You didn't know," Azura comforted her. "You're entitled to have time away, to celebrate with your family."

"We had no warning," Onmund said bitterly. "They came out of nowhere."

"Drevis cloaked us all with invisibility," J'Zargo said. "It was the only reason so many of us made it out. He went back in again and again to pull as many students to safety as he could."

"Where is Drevis?" Tamsyn asked, past the lump in her throat.

"He…he didn't come back out the last time," Onmund told her, hating the look on her face. "But all these novices and apprentices owe their lives to him. We won't forget what he did."

"He might not have perished," Azura offered. "He might be stuck somewhere, safe for the moment, but unable to move to escape."

"What's keeping the daedra from coming down the causeway into the town?" Marcus asked, frowning.

"Holy runes," Azura said. "Onmund and I laid them down as soon as we got to the first magicka well, just outside the gate. We can cross them, but the daedra can't."

"That won't keep them from crossing the channel," Marcus brooded. "We saw some of those spider-daedra prowling down the cliffs. Now I know they were searching for a way for all of them to get past that rune you put down."

"We have to go in, then," Tamsyn said, pushing her emotions to a back burner. "I won't ask any of you to follow us, but Marcus and I have to try and stop this."

"Enthir and I will be right behind you," Azura assured her, earning a shocked look from her husband, followed with a nod and a look of resignation.

"J'Zargo, Onmund," Tamsyn said, "I won't ask you to come back in for this. While we could probably use the extra fire-power, I think it's more important to get these students to the nearest safe place. Take them to Mzulft. Serana should still be there. From Mzulft you should be able to get them to the other training bases."

"We want to fight, too!" several of the second-year novices protested. "This is _our_ College they've invaded!"

"But none of you are experienced enough to go toe-to-toe with Daedric Lords like these," Tamsyn insisted, cutting across their protests.

"Then what have we been training for, Arch-Mage?" one of the apprentices asked.

Tamsyn opened her mouth to reply, then shut it again. She looked at her husband for guidance.

"She has a point, my love," he shrugged. "It's not going to get any easier. If this is the first wave of attacks against the Alliance, this is what they've been preparing for."

Tamsyn beckoned the young Breton mage forward. "What's your name again?" she asked kindly. "Colleen, isn't it? You're in one of Azura's Restoration classes."

"Yes, Arch-Mage," Colleen replied. "I was going to take my Adept levels this week."

"She's very talented," Azura said proudly.

Tamsyn nodded. "And all of you feel this way?" she asked the students. Their round of affirmative cheers was as heartening as it was heart-breaking. She knew she would be sending them to their deaths if they followed her.

"This is war, my love," Marcus murmured in her ear. "We will all be called upon to do what must be done, even if we hate it."

Blinking back the blurriness in her eyes, Tamsyn nodded. "Alright," she said. "We stick together then. Let's set up a camp out here. I don't want to put a strain on Dagur at the Frozen Hearth; there are too many of us. Some of you head over to Birna's with Enthir and get as many tents and bedrolls as you can."

"Don't forget cookpots!" Azura called after her husband, who waved behind him as if to say, "I know, I know!"

"The rest of you divide up," Marcus ordered. "Some are going to stay here to set up the camp, the others will come with me as we gather whatever wood we can find here and see what kind of game we can scare up."

"Heads-up!" someone called. "Here comes the Jarl!"

"Oh boy," Tamsyn groaned. "He doesn't look happy!"

"Arch-Mage!" Korir thundered, striding towards the group. His son, Assur, was three steps behind him. "What in the name of all Nine Gods have you done up there at your College _now?"_

"This wasn't our doing, Jarl," Tamsyn said patiently. "We've been attacked by outside forces."

"Probably provoked by those weird experiments you people do up there," the Nord lord stormed. "I should have thrown all of you out of my town years ago!"

"You tell 'em, Pa!" Assur cheered.

"Jarl Korir," Tamsyn interrupted indignantly, "in case you haven't noticed, we mages have been doing quite a lot for Winterhold these last few years! We've used our magic to help the people of this town, and to encourage new people to come here and settle. And now we have a crisis on our hands that we didn't cause, but we _will_ resolve, so the last thing I need is somebody threatening me with eviction!"

"Help Winterhold?" Korir sneered. "How have you 'helped' my people?"

"Mages and elves and magic," Assur jeered. "They're nothing but trouble!" It was clear he was echoing words his father must have spoken in his presence. Tamsyn noted sourly that his father hadn't shushed him.

Tamsyn pulled herself up to her full height, but she was still a head shorter than the Jarl, and not much taller than his son. Assur was fourteen now, and tall for his age.

"Who do you think found the gold and ebony ore veins in Whistling Mine?" she challenged him. "We did, with our divination spells."

"I thought the miners—"

"They wouldn't have known where to start digging if we hadn't told them," Tamsyn snapped. "And reopening the mine has brought scores of people here to work and live, which means Birna's store was able to expand. She was able to hire a couple people to help her. Opening the mine encouraged a smith to come here and settle, and carpenters come here to build new homes. Who do you think helped clear the old harbor of those large boulders in the Channel, so the East Empire Company could use Winterhold as another possible trade city?"

"I just assumed—"

"We did, by using our magic to shrink the boulders and make it easier and less costly to move them out of the way. Rebuilding the harbor is still a year or two away, but having Winterhold established as a stop along the trade route brings more business into the town, which means more money in your coffers. Who do you think pulled all of the people here through a bad case of influenza last winter, including you and your family?"

"Your Healers did," Korir admitted, the fight taken out of him. "Alright, Arch-Mage, you've made your point. But what's to keep those horrors from coming down here into the town, and destroying everything?"

"We are," Marcus said quietly, and behind him several mages stood taller and straighter. "If you will please return to your lodge, and let us get to it."

Korir studied the Imperial for a long moment before giving a jerk of his head. "Aye, then, Dragonborn. See that you do." He turned and stomped back to his longhouse, no more satisfied than when he first confronted them. Behind him, Assur scowled at Enthir and Azura, then turned to follow his father back home.

"Lovely family," Azura murmured. "The son isn't much better than the father."

"Children live what they learn," Tamsyn shrugged, "and they learn what they live."

"Let's discuss that later," Marcus suggested. "Who's coming with me?"

About a dozen star-struck novices and a handful of apprentices volunteered to go with him, and they headed off to find fuel and food.

"Where are we going to find wood?" one of the apprentices asked. "There's not a lot that grows up here in the tundra."

"What's your name?" Marcus asked.

"Kalven," the young Nord replied. "Kalven Skorjenson. My pa is a stone-cutter in Dawnstar. My ma is helping the priest, Erandur, to restore the Nightcaller Temple so they can use it as a Temple to Mara. She's the one with the talent for magic."

"Well, Kalven, I'm glad to know you," Marcus smiled. "As to where we're going to get wood…we aren't. We're going to the Whistling Mine to get coal."

"Will they sell it to us?" Kalven asked, dubious. "And do we have enough money to get what we need?"

"If we have to, we'll do the digging ourselves," Marcus replied easily. At this, a few of the novices groaned. "A little hard work hurt no one," he reminded them. "It's going to be a long, cold night without a fire."

On the way to Whistling Mine, several students took shots at rabbits and partridges that scurried out of their way, and at one point, they all contributed to lessening the bear population in Winterhold when two snow bears became too aggressive.

"Pack the meat in the snowbank, there," Marcus said, after skinning and cutting off the choice portions. A few of the mages turned away to get sick. They weren't Nords, Marcus observed. "I'll drag the carcass off to keep other predators away. The snow should keep the meat until we come back for it later today." He smiled kindly at two of the novices who seemed to be having the most difficulty viewing the bloody corpse.

"This is what it will be like inside the College," he said, patting them on the shoulders. "You may see…remnants…of people you once knew. I won't think any less of you if you decide to stay behind. But this is reality," he reminded them firmly. "If you have any doubts as to your ability to hold your own in a pitched battle against the forces of Oblivion, don't feel pressured to come. I don't want any more casualties."

The young man and woman – who couldn't have been older than sixteen – nodded miserably, but said nothing.

A short time later they reached the mine, and Marcus negotiated with the owner, Thorgar, to allow him and his student followers to dig for coal, a common by-product of the mine.

"But any ores you dig up belong to me, understand?" the Nord owner cautioned him.

Marcus assured him they were only after coal, which appeared as a thick, black, crumbling layer only in the upper levels of the mine. They worked diligently, filling basket after basket with the mineral, until well into the afternoon, when the Dragonborn finally called a halt. Thorgar insisted on examining each basket before it could leave the mine, and Marcus waited patiently as the suspicious miner checked to make sure no one was smuggling out anything more valuable than fossilized plant and animal matter.

"I guess you're clean," the Nord finally admitted, and accepted a small pouch of coins from the Dragonborn for the privilege of allowing them to mine the ore themselves.

Upon returning to the campsite, with the meat they had retrieved, and the sun setting lower in the west, they found several tents had already been erected, and a handful of fire rings had been set up for communal cooking. Fires were soon lit, and soon the aroma of roasted meat wafted through the air.

"We need to discuss strategy," Tamsyn said, after everyone had eaten. Most were getting ready to bed down for the night. "Azura and I will get them settled, then we can talk." She included J'Zargo and Onmund in the 'we' with a look. They nodded in understanding.

As she and Azura assigned the rest of the students to tents and made certain that fires were stocked and warming runes were laid under each bedroll, she looked around their group and counted heads. Perhaps twenty students, not including Onmund, J'Zargo, Enthir and Azura, and Marcus and herself. The odds weren't good. None of the students were higher than potentially adept level in any of their studies. As soon as they graduated to expert, they were shipped off to one of the deep, Dwemer underground sites for further study, to allay any suspicions from the Dominion. It was a strategy that had worked, to a point. Now, it had cost them their most capable battle mages.

"Couldn't we send this lot to Mzulft and ask for reinforcements?" Enthir asked, dubious, when she and his wife returned.

"We could," Azura nodded, "but it would take time. I don't know if we have that time. At some point, the daedra may figure out a way to cross the Channel, or get around the holy runes Onmund and I set."

"I think that's very likely," Marcus replied. "Julia told us before we left that the daedra were brought in by a sload, who was in turn summoned by Zenosha."

"Zenosha?" J'Zargo echoed. "Who is that?"

"And you believe your daughter?" Onmund asked skeptically. "I mean, no offense, but…well, she's only two years old!"

"Three," Tamsyn corrected absently. "Julia is three. And yes, I believe her. She had a visitation in a dream, from Julianos himself." She threw Enthir and Azura a cautioning look. Onmund and J'Zargo did not know of Tamsyn's connection to the God of Magic and Wisdom.

"Zenosha is a name that has cropped up before," Marcus told them. "The assassination of Jarl Nepos, in Markarth, seems to have been engineered by her. She's been hiding out in the Reach, at our last reports, but she's managed to give the Reachfolk the slip so far. It looks like this may be why: she hasn't been in the Reach. She's been here, waiting to stir up trouble."

"But why?" J'Zargo asked. "It doesn't make sense! Why would a lone necromancer care about who is Jarl in Markarth, or about destroying the College of Winterhold?"

"We believe she may be working with the Dominion," Tamsyn said. "And this is the first salvo."

Enthir nodded, comprehending. "De-stabilize the Reach, which is a hot-bed of ill-feelings, after the Markarth Incident, and take out one of the biggest factions against their plan of world domination by neutralizing the College of Winterhold." He turned to Tamsyn and said, almost apologetically, "I did warn you that not allowing them an observer on premises might be a bad idea."

"There's no need to say 'I told you so', Enthir," Azura scolded him. "Tamsyn did what she felt was the right thing at the time. More to the point, we need to figure out how to get in there."

"A full-frontal assault would be madness!" Onmund exclaimed. "We're mages, not warriors. We're up against daedra!"

"And it can be done," Tamsyn said firmly. "I've fought daedra before." She didn't mention it was in a video game, in another time and another life. "We have to use all the resources at our disposal. We have wards, we have mage armor, we have destruction and illusion spells. We also have a dragon. All these things combined could cause enough of a distraction to allow a smaller force to sneak in the back way."

"Back way?" Enthir echoed. "You mean, through the Midden?"

Tamsyn nodded. "That's exactly what I mean. My daughter mentioned that a sload had gated all these daedra in. We need to find the sload and close the gate."

"How are you going to do that?" J'Zargo asked, skeptically.

"Leave that to me," Tamsyn assured him. "All I ask is that you create enough of a ruckus top-side for me to get inside and do what I need to do."

"I'm going with you," Azura insisted. "I mean it," she said firmly when Tamsyn would have protested. "Two powerful mages are better than one."

Marcus nodded. "As much as it scares the beejeezus out of me, thinking of you going in there on your own, I agree with you," he said. "Enthir and I, along with the rest of the crew, will keep them occupied out here. When do you want to start?"

"As soon as it's light enough to see," Tamsyn said. "The daedra don't have a problem of seeing in the dark, like we do; most of their realms are in darkness, anyway, lit only by fires or lava. But I don't have night vision, like J'Zargo. I'd like to see what's coming at me."

"We'd better get some sleep, then," Enthir said. "It's going to be a long day tomorrow."

"Someone should stand watch at the bridge," Onmund suggested. "I'll go. If the runes fade, or get compromised, I can restore them."

"I'll go with you," Marcus offered. "J'Zargo and Enthir can relieve us later on this evening…morning…whatever. Come and check on us about two hours past midnight," he told the Bosmer mage. Enthir nodded, and Marcus gave Tamsyn a quick kiss. "Don't leave without letting me know, so we can coordinate efforts."

"Of course," she agreed, but her eyes were filled with worry and sadness. Too many of her staff were gone. Was Drevis even still alive? She hoped so, but it didn't seem likely. She had played enough of _Oblivion_ to know how difficult the game could be when playing a straight mage. She turned to assist Azura as they sorted the remaining students into sleeping quarters and bedded down for the night.

She awoke briefly as Marcus returned to their tent and rolled up next to her bedroll.

"All quiet?" she whispered.

"So far," he answered softly. "Onmund refreshed the runes. Some of the imps had been testing them, but got vaporized as they tried to cross. That was very satisfying to watch," he grinned in the dark. "It's like something was directing them, though, testing our defenses."

"Probably the sload," Tamsyn nodded, sleepily. "Any movement across the Channel?"

"Not with Odahviing on guard," Marcus chuckled. "He's enjoying this game."

"I'm glad he thinks it's a game," Tamsyn muttered sourly, before yawning.

"To the dragons, everything is a game," Marcus replied. "You should know that by now. Go back to sleep, my love. There's nothing more we can do until daybreak."

The sun had just crept over the eastern horizon when Tamsyn awoke. Enthir was still gone, presumably at the bridge. Azura confirmed this when Tamsyn caught up with her over a steaming mug of tea.

"He's been there since Marcus switched places with him," she said. "I just took some food up to him and J'Zargo."

"You got up early, then," said the Arch-Mage.

"Oh, I've been up for a couple of hours," the Bosmer woman grinned. "I'm a mer, and we don't need as much sleep as a human would. You sleep very deeply, by the way." She winked.

"Yeah, I've been told that before," Tamsyn grumbled good-naturedly. "What supplies do we have available to us?"

"Not much," Azura admitted. "We cleaned Birna out of anything useful. She didn't have many potions, and some of them were those she bought from the novices and apprentices, I think. I tested one and it had…undesirable side-effects."

"So, unusable, then," Tamsyn frowned. "Well, they have to learn somehow, and they certainly can't further their studies without cash. I just wish they hadn't sold their rejects in Winterhold."

"We'll have to make do with what we've got," Azura said simply. "If they can make it to the Lustratorium—"

"I'm sure that's as compromised as the rest of the College grounds," Tamsyn replied, shaking her head. "There won't be anything usable down there."

Enthir returned with Marcus by his side.

"Who's guarding the bridge?" Azura asked, worry knitting her brow.

"Onmund and J'Zargo, with a couple apprentices," her husband said. "They're teaching them how to cast those holy runes. Good idea. The more who can throw those down, the better chance we have of making it to the courtyard and getting inside."

"We're going to be unable to communicate with each other," Marcus reminded them. "Let's figure out now how much time we should give you before we attack."

"The cave entrance to the Midden is on the island itself, on the northeastern side," Tamsyn said. "If the spider-daedra are prowling around out there, it might be a good idea to have Odahviing chase them off. Once he's done a couple strafing runs, you can begin your attack. Azura and I will slip in as soon as we're sure we won't be seen."

"You'll be invisible, though, won't you?" Enthir said. "They won't see you anyway."

"Footprints, husband of mine," Azura reminded him. "We'll still be leaving footprints."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about those," the Bosmer muttered, smacking his forehead.

"We shouldn't wait any longer," Tamsyn said. "Azura and I will make our way around to the northeast side of the island. Give us an hour to get into position, then start."

Marcus kissed her goodbye, and Enthir held his wife close.

"Good luck!" both men whispered.

As the two women headed southeast out of town, and down the path which would eventually end at the Channel, Enthir turned to Marcus.

"So, any ideas how we're going to fight this?"

"A few," Marcus said, "but a lot will depend on what we find when we get up there. Did you see any of those spider-daedra on the slopes?"

"Some," the Bosmer mage admitted. "They look like they're reluctant to cross the Channel. I don't know why. It's not that deep."

"For a creature that lives in a realm of fire and lava, water might be an anathema to them," the Dragonborn offered.

"I suppose," Enthir mused. "I'll have to take your word for that. I've never been to any plane of Oblivion before."

"And here I thought you were a well-travelled mer," Marcus grinned.

"There are limits even to _my_ wanderlust," Enthir quipped. "It's a good thing we cleared the Channel of those huge boulders and charred timbers last year. Those spider-daedra could have used them to get across. Now, it's just swift, cold water, even if it's not very deep."

"Let's hope it continues to keep them at bay," Marcus nodded. "We should get up there and assess the situation. Odahviing!" he called to the red dragon, resting nearby.

" _Thuri?"_

"We're headed over to the causeway to form a plan. Meet us there."

" _Geh, Thuri,"_ the dragon responded. " _Zu'u hon ahrk thaar."_ I hear and obey.

Lifting himself into the morning light, the dragon glided easily across town, alighting on a pinnacle by the entrance to the causeway, preening his scales until Marcus and Enthir could catch up to him.

As per the Jarl's orders, most people were keeping themselves indoors, but a few opened their shutters and doors enough to peek out and see the Dragonborn stride by. Marcus felt their eyes upon him, and the burden of their hope that he would be able to stop this horror and save them. He hoped he could.

Reaching the bridge, he advanced as far as the first energy well and looked over to the island upon which the College sat. Enthir stood quietly beside him.

"That's a lot of daedra," the Bosmer mage murmured. Nearly every horizontal surface held some kind of creature from Oblivion on it, and scores of spider-daedra moved restlessly up and down the rocky face of the pinnacle, searching for some way off the lump of rock that wouldn't require them to pass the holy runes thrown down at the top of the causeway.

Overhead, the skies were dark and red, and swirled with localized storms that did not quite reach back to the town. Black, talon-like spires jutted out of the sides of the pinnacle and the walls of the College itself. Peering up to the top of the bridge, Marcus could see that the magicka well in front of the gate had now become a fountain of lava.

Turning and descending the stairs, he ran a hand through his hair. He had started keeping it shorter, to keep it out of his eyes, so the action merely resembled running his hands over a bristle-brush. Tamsyn didn't like it, but admitted it was his hair, and he could do with it what he wished.

"So," Enthir prompted. "What do you think?"

"I think we're fucked, quite honestly," Marcus admitted, knowing the mage would appreciate his candor. "We've got maybe a couple dozen mages, none of whom really know how to handle martial weapons, with the exception of maybe Onmund, here." He nodded to the Nord mage who had come down from his post when he saw them arrive.

"I wouldn't sell them short, Dragonborn," Onmund replied defensively. "Many of these students were raised to fight defensively first, before they came here to learn magic."

"Onmund's right," Enthir said. "Most of them are studying Destruction magic, too."

"We need more than Destruction, though," Marcus reminded him. "We need Alteration for wards, Conjuration to bolster our ranks and firepower, Restoration for healing the injured. Even Illusion might be useful to Calm the scamps and keep them off our backs."

"I'll start dividing up the classes, then," Onmund offered. "Our only real choice is to push forward through the main gates. After that, it's going to be a free-for-all in the courtyard." He headed back to their camp, shaking his head.

"Enthir, I need to know the layout of the campus," Marcus said. "I know I've been there many times, but I'm not really familiar with how things are set up inside. What is connected, and what stands alone?"

"Not much stands alone, I'm afraid," Enthir admitted. "The whole purpose of the construction was to make it accessible for any student and faculty to get anywhere from anywhere."

"Just break it down for me as quickly as you can," Marcus insisted.

"Alright," Enthir sighed. "As you come in the main gates you see the Hall of the Elements across the courtyard. To either side of you are the two residence Halls; Attainment to the left, Countenance to the right. Flanking the courtyard on either side is the Lustratorium – our greenhouses. They're connected through underground tunnels to both residence Halls."

"But not the Hall of the Elements?" Marcus asked.

"No," Enthir said, shaking his head. "I don't know why, but it's not. Now, under the Hall of Countenance – the faculty residence, if you prefer – is a stairway that leads down to the Midden, and there's also two hatchways on either side of the Hall of the Elements that also lead down there. We've used those tunnels before, because our portal to our other bases is down there."

"Near the Atronach Forge," Marcus nodded. "I remember."

Enthir nodded as well. "Both those accessways merge somewhere underground, but the one to the right of the Hall is a more direct route to the smithing forge."

"Smithing forge?" Marcus echoed. "I never knew you guys had a smithing forge here."

"Some of the students need to be able to enchant weapons and jewelry, that kind of thing," Enthir explained. "It made more sense way back when to put in our own forge, instead of having to go into town to do any smithing. And of course, after the city fell, well…we were the only forge in town for a long time. Not that the townsfolk ever came up to use it."

"Okay, so what else is down there?" Marcus asked.

"Well, there's the Midden Dark – that's even deeper into the pinnacle than the Midden," Enthir said. "It's where the Auger usually resided, though he's been absent for some time now. Even Tamsyn hasn't been able to make him come back and talk." He frowned. "Oh, and there's the doors to Old Winterhold. But they're locked, and only Tamsyn has the key."

"Old Winterhold?" Marcus queried. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the ruins of the old city of Winterhold that collapsed over eighty-five years ago."

"Why are there doors to it?" the Dragonborn frowned. "What's behind them?"

"You weren't here, then," Enthir said, somberly. "The College didn't used to be out on a pinnacle. We were near the center of town, with the Jarl's fine house just to the south of it, where the causeway is now. There didn't used to be such a well-travelled road south to Windhelm. Most people would take a ship. It was faster and easier. When the Collapse happened, I wasn't here, but I was told by Savos Aren that it took all their magical power just to keep the College from tumbling into the sea along with the city. Arch-Mage Deneth was in charge then, and afterwards he ordered as much food and provisions as we could spare be sent down to Jarl Valdimar and the people. Of course, we had to build a bridge to get everything down – this very causeway, in fact."

Marcus nodded. "That was a nice gesture."

"Yes," Enthir said sourly. "I wish the Jarl had thought so, too. He thought the College was responsible for the Collapse, and he never changed his mind about that, to his dying day, even after the letter Deneth wrote to him. Valdimar passed his version of what happened down to his granddaughter, Morgen, who became Jarl when Valdimar died. Morgen's father died in the Collapse, so she was raised by Valdimar. She told the story to her son, Korir, our current Jarl."

"So, it's a long-perpetuated story of misinformation," Marcus mused. "No wonder Korir is so rigid about this."

"He's never going to believe his ancestors were wrong about this," Enthir agreed. "As for what's behind the doors, no one knows. No one's opened them since they were locked, over eighty-five years ago."

* * *

Tamsyn and Azura hurried down the path that led to the shore, though it took them far out of their way. There was another path, which came down the north side of the precipice and ended under the causeway, but they would have been visible to every spell-casting spider-daedra and Xivilai on the pinnacle.

"I don't ever remember there being a back entrance to the Midden," Azura remarked as they walked.

"You left before the Collapse," Tamsyn reminded her. "I don't necessarily think it was the cause of the ice tunnel opening up, but I could be wrong about that. It's also entirely possible that some inventive Destruction mage needed a back way in and out for some less-than-College-approved activities."

"Sounds like something Enthir would have done," Azura snorted. "I honestly wouldn't put it past him."

"Well, if he did, or was the inspiration behind it, I'm grateful now," Tamsyn replied. "It should put us fairly close to where the Auger holes up." A wave of sadness washed over her at the thought of her now-silent friend. He had not allowed any contact in the past two years. She wondered if he had finally gone on to Aetherius, or if he just refused to interfere any longer in the threads of destiny.

Mentally brushing that aside for now, she concentrated on negotiating her way down the slippery snow-packed path to the gravel beach. It was heartbreaking to see along the way the debris and remnants of broken homes and shops that had once been part of the thriving port city Winterhold had been in its heyday. The fact that the pinnacle, on which the College stood, had once been street level, was sobering. The entire city had been perched on a bluff, high above the Sea of Ghosts, with a road that wound back and forth down the cliff-face to the harbor below. Somewhere, there had been a Temple to Talos, near the Hall of Epochs, but Azura couldn't remember now where they had been. Somewhere north of the College, she thought, but too much time had passed. Her first impressions, upon returning two years ago, was to wonder what had happened to the city wall.

"Most of it fell into the sea," Enthir had told her. "Whatever was left was used to make the bridge back to the new mainland, and to rebuild the few homes you still see now, including the Jarl's longhouse. The old castle was lost, as well."

Azura felt tears welling up in her eyes, because she remembered what the town had been like, alive and vibrant with people and activity. She pushed it aside. It wouldn't help them now.

Crouching as they approached, Tamsyn scanned the opposite shore, and made a sound of chagrin upon seeing just how many daedra there were.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't there to help fight this," she murmured.

"I doubt you could have done much more," Azura said. "No offense, of course, but we were totally overwhelmed, and so quickly!"

"Where did they come in from?" Tamsyn asked.

"The Midden, as near as anyone could say," Azura replied. "They swarmed into the Halls from below, and into the courtyard from the Lustratorium and the Midden hatches. They took over the Hall of the Elements and pushed us back into the Arcaneum and your quarters, to which Enthir still had a key. We tried to barricade ourselves in, but the Arch-Mage's quarters has too many ways of getting in. They broke through the upper windows and down the stairs from the tower above."

"And the Arcaneum?" Tamsyn asked.

"I don't know about that," Azura admitted. "The last I saw, in all the confusion, was Urag conjuring up a solid stone wall, to seal himself in. There were students in there with him, but I don't know how many."

"So, there's hope they may still be alive in there," Tamsyn murmured.

"It's been days, Tamsyn," Azura replied, hating herself for the need to be honest. "Even if they survived the initial onslaught, even if Urag's wall held, they have no food, no water, and they would soon run out of air."

"I won't believe they're gone until I see it," Tamsyn insisted. "But we need to get in there. We need to wait for Odahviing."

In her heart, Tamsyn knew Azura was probably right, but she couldn't give in to despair. If they could find the gate the daedra were coming in through, and shut it down, Marcus, Enthir and the others wouldn't have to fight a continual supply of creatures from Oblivion replacing the ones they cut down.

A roar overhead alerted them to Odahviing's approach, and the great red dragon laughed as he roared out a wide column of frost. It was not his breath weapon of choice, but even Odahviing was aware that creatures born of fire and lava would be much more vulnerable to ice and cold. Indeed, several spider-daedra dropped from the stone pinnacle where they clung and rolled down the sides, to end, curled up and dead at the bottom of the rocks.

The dragon whirled around and made two more passes on their side of the island, sweeping away any daedra that might find the two women, crouching on the other side of the Channel.

"That's our cue," Tamsyn said. "Hope you don't mind getting your feet wet."

"You worry about that," Azura smirked. "I'm wearing Ahzidal's boots. I also have his mask here, with Dukaan." She patted the two metal masks hooked to her belt.

"Cheater," Tamsyn sniffed. "Fine, then I'll just float over." She lifted herself a foot off the ground with her Ring of Flying and glided out across the Channel.

" _Now_ who's cheating?" Azura grumbled, but grinned as she strode over the surface, her feet sinking only slightly with each step.

"Time to go invisible!" Azura announced when they got to the other side.

"Alright, but stay behind me so you'll see my footprints," Tamsyn said. "You don't know where to go, remember?"

"I remember," the Bosmer mage nodded. "Do you want to Muffle, as well?"

"No," the Arch-Mage replied. "We might have to call out to each other. Let's just try to be as quiet as possible."

So saying, both women cast their spells and winked out of sight, but Azura could plainly see footprints appearing ahead of her in the thick, soft snow. Tamsyn led them both west along the Channel, where footprints disappeared into the gravel.

"Tamsyn!" hissed Azura. "Where are we going?"

"There's a slope ahead on the right that's easier to climb," the Breton woman's voice drifted back. "Just keep going this way, you'll see it!"

Another two hundred yards further, and Azura could see the Arch-Mage was indeed correct. It wasn't a gentle slope, but it would enable them to get up higher on the island and work their way around the back of the pinnacle. Soon, she saw the footprints again, leading her up and to the left, climbing higher as they went. When their invisibility spells ran out, they crouched against the rock as Odahviing continued his frosty assault overhead. In the distance, above and behind them, they heard the boom of spells being cast, and the faint roars and shouts – especially Marcus' Shouts – of combat.

"We need to hurry," Tamsyn said. "This way." They cast their spells again and continued on around the pinnacle, until suddenly, Tamsyn's footprints stopped.

"There's a stone ramp here," Tamsyn whispered, and Azura found it slightly unnerving to hear the voice of her friend coming out of nowhere. "But there's a great big boulder here I never bothered to move because – well, because I could float up if I needed to, and it formed a natural barrier to anyone trying to sneak in this way."

"I can get rid of it," Azura offered. "And then restore it once I'm past it. But I'll become visible if I do."

"Quickly, then," the Arch-Mage said. "We don't know how long the threat of Odahviing is going to keep the spider-daedra away."

Fortunately, it was a matter of only a few moments for Azura to reduce the rock to the size of her hand and climb the ramp, then reverse her spell once she was clear. The two women entered the ice tunnel and Tamsyn threw an illusion of an ice wall over the entrance. Her invisibility winked out.

"That might buy us a little time, if they don't already know about this," she murmured.

"What's our plan?" Azura asked, worried for the assault force above. "You and I are probably the strongest mages we've got right now."

"We'll need to clear the Midden," Tamsyn said. "I want to make sure there are no other Oblivion gates within the College grounds itself. If we close the one on top of the Hall of the Elements, our enemy can still gate in reinforcements if they have something down here we aren't aware of."

"Alright, first things first," said the Bosmer mage. "I need to get up on this ledge. How do other students handle it?"

Tamsyn shrugged. "A variety of ways. Only the cleverest really come back in this way. It was meant as a way _out,_ not a way _in."_

"Hmm," Azura mused sourly, "well, that's alright for you to say. You've got a ring. I don't have that."

"How much do you weigh?" Tamsyn asked.

"You think you can lift me?"

"That depends," the Breton woman smirked. "You didn't answer my question."

Azura rolled her eyes. "I'm about one-thirty, with everything I have on me at the moment," she replied, touching Sting and Grave, happy she'd had them with her with the crisis started.

Tamsyn nodded. "I think I can lift you enough to get over the hump here," she said. "Give me your hands."

It took some straining, and a little swearing and scrambling, but Tamsyn managed to pull Azura over the ledge, then plunked herself down, gasping hard. "I am out of shape," she complained to no one but herself.

"You had a baby not long ago," Azura offered.

"Four years ago!" she huffed. "You'd have thought I'd be able to work off the post-pregnancy pounds by now!"

"Not if you fly yourself everywhere instead of walk," Azura said smugly.

"You know," Tamsyn began, "if you weren't my best friend, I'd—"

"Hush!" Azura hissed, dropping to a crouch. "Did you hear that?"

From somewhere ahead of them came a chorus of guttural squeaks and grunts. Tamsyn rolled to her feet and brought her defenses up. Knowing how to cast spells silently, she threw Ebonyflesh on herself and brought up Expel Daedra in her other hand. Azura followed suit, as silently as her companion. Slowly they crept forward to the ice cavern from which their tunnel originated and peered out.

Overhead, across the ice bridge, marched a stream of lesser daedra: imps, scamps and clannfears. Interspersed in their numbers were the occasional daedroth, who hurried them along with whips, beatings and curses in their infernal tongue.

The two women pulled back and waited for the column to pass.

"We should find out where they're coming from," Tamsyn whispered. "They look like reinforcements."

"We'd have to work our way around to the upper level," Azura nodded. "I'm ready when you are."

They surprised a group of scamps and imps in the chamber that usually held spiders. The spiders were gone, their egg sacs smashed. Strange fungi were growing on the walls and floor in here. The two master mages made short work of the scamps by banishing them back to Oblivion.

"I've never seen anything like this!" Azura remarked, reaching out to one of the plants.

"Azura, stop!" Tamsyn whispered harshly, and her companion froze. "Those are spiddal sticks, from Oblivion. They release a poisonous gas that will incapacitate you if you get too close."

Azura slowly backed away. "Do they have any herbal properties?" she wondered, narrowing her chocolate brown eyes.

"The only good thing they do is restore fatigue," Tamsyn said. "Otherwise, the effects are all negative."

"Good to know," Azura said, eyeing the plant warily. "Do you think these things will stay here, after we've defeated the sload?"

"Hard to say," Tamsyn shrugged. "But I like that you're already thinking that we've won this thing."

Azura chuckled. "Half the battle is won right up here," she said, tapping her head.

"Did Neloth teach you that?" Tamsyn grinned.

"No," Azura smirked. "General Tullius, last time I was in Blackreach, and he came to visit, before he was recalled."

Tamsyn sighed. "I miss that man! We could sure use his tactical expertise now."

"Hopefully, we'll get to see him again when this is all over," Azura agreed. She paused and gave Tamsyn a searching look. "Do you think this is the beginning?" she asked.

Tamsyn nodded soberly. "I do," she admitted. "I'm not sure if the Dominion is directly behind this, but they will certainly take advantage of the chaos here to make their next move. Let's keep moving."

From the spider den they worked their way around to the stairs that would take them to the upper level of the Midden, fighting lesser daedra all along the way. Very soon, ahead of them, they felt a suppressing presence that told them strong magic was at work. Crouching, and peering around a corner, Tamsyn realized they were in the Gauntlet Chamber, where the effigy of Velekh Sain's hand still sat, fingers clenched around the rings that had summoned him a century before. Only now, the effigy was gone, and in its place, an Oblivion gate pulsed and glowed.

Around the gate were two armed Xivilai, and one in robes. Tamsyn motioned for Azura to pull back. When they had retreated far enough, Azura whispered harshly, "What in Oblivion is _that?"_

"You're right," Tamsyn sighed wearily. "That's exactly what it is…Oblivion. That's a gate to one of the planes."

"How did it get here?"

"My guess is the sload is responsible," Tamsyn said. "Though how the sload got here, and where _it_ is at the moment is anyone's guess."

"This is where the daedra are coming in by," Azura stated, frowning.

"One of the places," Tamsyn said. "There's another gate on top of the Hall of the Elements. We'll have to close both if we want to stem the flow of reinforcements."

"How do we do that?" Azura asked, wide-eyed. "Only the Champion of Cyrodiil ever managed to close an Oblivion gate!"

"Not exactly true," Tamsyn whispered. "The Argonians marched so relentlessly into the gates to protect their homeland that Mehrunes Dagon suffered enormous losses. He started shutting the gates down himself! And several brave souls across Tamriel entered to close them down in High Rock, Skyrim, Morrowind and all the other Provinces. We only read the most about the Champion because of the connection to Martin Septim's sacrifice at the very end. But all of Tamriel suffered."

"So, what needs to be done?" Azura asked, firmly. Whatever the cost, this was her home now, and she would be damned to Oblivion herself if she was going to let an invasion force drive her out.

"We need to get the Sigil stone," Tamsyn said. "It's probably in a high tower, in the center of the realm this Gate opens into. There will be many more daedra to get past, as well as physical barriers we'll have to negotiate, to get to it."

"Then let's do it," Azura said, rising. "The others are counting on us."

Casting their mage armor spells silently, and bringing Conjuration and Destruction spells into their hands, they advanced on the Gauntlet Chamber.

* * *

Marcus watched as Odahviing swung around for a third pass at the rocky island upon which the College perched. The dragon seemed to be having a glorious time freezing the daedra and darting off before they could launch a counter-attack against him.

"Alright everyone," he called down the causeway, where the majority of the students waited nervously. "We're going in. Try to stay together, healers in the center. Those of you with any martial training, stay on the outside and watch our flanks. Destruction mages, keep peppering them with ranged attacks, conjurers, keep your Atronachs coming as long as you can. All of you, try to keep your wards up, but don't let that drain you of magicka. Put up any mage armor you have and hope for the best. Here we go!"

With Enthir beside him and Kalven behind him, with J'Zargo somewhere in the middle and Onmund bringing up the rear, they surged through the gates of the College and into the courtyard. Immediately, chaos ensued as the daedra descended upon them from every corner and every angle. The doors to the Lustratorium on either side opened to spew forth more imps and scamps, as well as several daedroth and clannfears.

Marcus flew into his familiar, two-weapon style of fighting, with a new dragonbone sword Blaise had made for him, and Tamsyn had enchanted. It wasn't the same as Alduin's Bane, still lying in pieces in a chest back in Heljarchen, but Balimund had taken one look at it when presented with it and had shaken his head.

"There's nothing I can do to fix this, Dragonborn," he'd said. "Steel I can reforge. There's no way to reforge dragon bones."

So, the pieces had been reluctantly retired. The new sword, as yet unnamed, had an enchantment to absorb the health and stamina of his enemies. Every successful hit gave him back a bit more energy and healing. He had found it very useful.

Targeting the strongest daedra first, Marcus found himself moving quickly from one side of the courtyard to the other as the dragonbone sword cleaved through clannfears and daedroth.

"Pick up the ingredients later, you idiots!" he heard Enthir yell behind him. "Wait 'til we're out of combat!"

All around him, lightning bolts and ice spikes were lashing out, sometimes hitting, sometimes missing. These were apprentices, after all, and their aim needed work. After getting hit by a wayward ice spike for the second time, Marcus called out, "Target the ones on the roofs! And the ones on the walls above!" After that, it was a bit safer to move around the grounds to help stamp out the enemy.

Onmund and J'Zargo managed to get one door of the Lustratorium sealed. More daedra were pouring out of both the Hall of Countenance and the Hall of Attainment, however.

"We need to keep them in there!" J'Zargo said. "You four, come with me!" Four apprentice-level mages looked startled to be included in his group, but followed him the Hall of Countenance, the faculty building.

"I know what he's going to do," Onmund said. "I'll need you four to come to the Attainment hall with me!"

The smaller group split off and headed in that direction, as Marcus took out the last clannfears, and Enthir sealed the second door into the Lustratorium.

"That's not going to hold them forever," he said sourly, sweeping a line of electricity in the direction of the spider-daedra clambering over the roof towards him.

"We keep fighting," Marcus grunted. "Keep those mage armors going, team!" he encouraged them. _"KRII LUN AUS!"_ he bellowed at a group of daedroth coming towards them from the Hall of the Elements. The creatures shuddered as the _thu'u_ m began to drain their vitality, making them easier targets for the inexperienced mages behind him. Indeed, three of the daedra went down to a flurry of ice spikes, which they would normally have shrugged off.

A small group of terrified first-years were clustered near the well, too afraid to act, and unsure what they could do to help.

"We should have left them behind," Kalven said, launching electricity at the same spider-daedra Enthir was battling. The attack, coming out of nowhere, stunned the creature, and it fell from the wall and rolled towards the novices.

"Nonsense!" Enthir said brusquely. "You there! Hit it! Hit it with your sparks spell, all of you!" He turned to Kalven. "Stay with them. If they don't know how to draw on the magicka well, show them now!" He returned to the fight to help Marcus with the daedroth.

Kalven shrugged and did as he was bid, keeping a watchful eye overhead for any other spider-daedra.

A small team of apprentices, led by Colleen was standing sentinel at the gate, defending against the daedra endeavoring to come at them from outside. Some of the spider-daedra not frozen to death by Odahviing were climbing the sides of the outer walls, struggling to avoid getting too close to the holy runes laid down on the other side of the magicka well there. But they were being overwhelmed, and a despairing cry from Colleen made Marcus whip around to see her fall, paralyzed as a miniature spider-daedra bit her.

Leaving the daedroth to Enthir, Kalven and the novices, he rushed to the gate.

"Stand back, kids," he ordered, and took a deep breath.

" _FUS RO DAH!"_

The daedra, including the mini one, were swept away, past the well and down the causeway, passing over the runes as they did so, writhing agonizingly into non-existence as they went.

Colleen was rigid when Marcus reached her. He knew some Restoration magic – Tamsyn had insisted upon it once they had returned from Solstheim – but nothing that would help here. He checked her pulse, however, and found it to still be strong.

"Stay with her," he told the other two. "I think she'll be okay. She just needs time to recover. Pull back down the causeway, if you have to, beyond the runes." The two young men nodded and picked up the apprentice Healer, one taking her shoulders and the other taking her feet. They moved off as quickly as they could with their burden while Marcus returned to the fight.

From the tail of his eye he saw the door to the Hall of Countenance open and braced himself, but it was a Khajiit, and not daedra, that emerged, followed by two of the four who had gone in with him.

"Where are the others?" Marcus asked.

"Dead," J'Zargo said sorrowfully. "The hall is swarming with daedra. We were attacked as soon as we went in, but the others held them off long enough for me to lay down the rune. They'll be stuck in there, unless they come out through the Midden, or up on top of the walls."

Onmund came out of the Hall of Attainment, with only one of his crew missing. "I laid down a rune in there," he told Marcus, his eyes on the walls. "The door will be secure, but they were headed up the stairs once they knew they couldn't get past us. We lost Zander," he added, subdued.

"We need to end this," Marcus muttered.

"How?" Enthir shot back over his shoulder. A new wave of clannfears was leaping down from the walls and skulking around the backs of the Lustratorium on both sides.

"I'm going to have to get into that Oblivion gate up there and shut it down," Marcus said.

"Do you know how to do that?" Enthir asked, cutting off the clannfears advances with a wall of frost.

"Tamsyn said we'd have to retrieve the Sigil stone," the Dragonborn replied.

Enthir nodded. "I've read how the Champion of Cyrodiil did it," he replied as Kalven launched a lightning bolt at another spider-daedra, coming out of the Hall of the Elements. For several minutes all conversation ceased as every mage threw all they had at the coming onslaught, and Marcus used his Marked for Death _thu'um_ to make it easier for the novices and apprentices to take out the enemy. When there was finally a lull, Enthir spoke again.

"Here's the deal," he began quickly, eyes darting all around the courtyard. "Once you enter that gate, you're in Oblivion. Where in Oblivion is anyone's guess, but to get the Sigil stone you'll have to find which tower it's in. There may be only one tower, there may be more, I don't know. You'll have to get around traps, daedra, rivers of lava, who knows what else. Once you find the Sigil stone, all you have to do is take it off its pedestal. When you do that, it closes the gate and ejects you back to Mundus in the spot where the gate is on this plane, got it?"

Marcus nodded. "Go in, find tower, grab stone, close gate. I think I can handle that."

Enthir clapped his shoulder. "Good luck, my friend," he said sincerely. "Alright, everyone, let's put down a few more runes, if we can, and this time let's put them on _this_ side of the doors, so they'll walk right across them as they come out." He glared at J'Zargo and Onmund, as if they should have thought of this themselves, and the two experienced mages had the grace to look shamefaced. "When we've done that, we pull back down to the town, understand? Is Colleen awake yet? No? Alright, two of you get her, and let's go!"

Marcus called for Odahviing, who descended into the courtyard with a blast of his frost breath sweeping the perimeter of the wall above them. The temperature dropped several degrees in the immediate area, but no one complained. As soon as the mages were done, the dragon dropped heavily down next to the magicka well, complaining about the tight fit as he did so.

"I hope I have room to lift off," he grumbled. Marcus chuckled as he climbed aboard. "Where to, _thuri?"_

"The top of the tower, there," Marcus said. "The Hall of the Elements where the Oblivion gate is."

"I hear and obey, _thuri,"_ the dragon rumbled. "But I hope you know what you're doing."

"So do I," Marcus muttered under his breath, but the dragon's keen senses heard him anyway. "So do I."

* * *

 _[Author's Note: The song Marcus sings at the beginning of this chapter is, of course, "Desperado" by the Eagles. All rights to the song belong to them. If you've never heard it before, you should give it a listen. It's probably my favorite song of all time.]_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 2**

 _I'm in Hell,_ Marcus thought. If ever there was a true depiction of that horrific realm, this was it. He looked around at the forbidding landscape.

Rising in front of him was a large stone tower, with lights streaming from the windows at the top. It was the only intact structure he could see, but getting up to it was practically impossible. Enormous talon-like formations, similar to the ones that had sprung up on and around the College of Winterhold, erupted from the nearly sheer precipice in front of him. Closer examination revealed the talons were razor-sharp, and oozed a continual flow of bright red blood. The face of the cliff in front of him was loose and crumbling, dotted with scraggly dead trees, and offered nothing to hold on to. There would be no scaling this one.

To the right, the cliff-face wrapped around to the gate, and there wasn't much of a beach on the other side before running into a sea of lava. It was swelteringly hot here, and Marcus was starting to regret his dragonbone armor. A hot wind was blowing fumes from the left, but there seemed to be a sort of path there. It was as good a place as any to start.

The first firebolt came out of nowhere. Camouflaged perfectly into the landscape around it, he didn't see the scamp until it saw him and launched its attack.

" _FO KRAH DIIN!"_ he bellowed, and watched with some satisfaction as it shriveled and collapsed to the dirt. His Shout, however, alerted a Xivilai not far away, who roared as it advanced, _**There you are, weakling!**_

The daedra lord raised its two-handed greatsword and closed the distance with surprising speed. Ordinarily, Marcus would have had to wait for a 'cooling down' period before he could Shout again. But in the last two years, he had spent some time with Miraak, now a Greybeard at High Hrothgar, who had taught him how to hold a few lesser dragon souls in reserve, and how to keep them from ganging up on him as Boney and Solly had done a few years before. Using the energy of the soul without consuming it to learn a Word, Marcus was able to Shout more often.

" _MUL QAH DIIV!"_

Immediately, the Dragonborn was suffused with an overlying aspect of a Dragon Warrior of old, a _thu'um_ that lent him extra strength and defense. He met the Xivilai's attack by blocking with his dragonbone sword and slashing with the ebony dagger in his left hand. Dually enchanted with paralyze and a chaos effect Tamsyn learned from Azura, the dagger would randomly cause elemental damage of one sort or another, as well as have the potential to stun his opponent into immobility. In this case, it screeched across the Xivilai's armor, unable to penetrate.

"Crap!" he bit out. The ebony wasn't strong enough. He danced out of reach of the daedra's counter-swing, sheathing the diminutive weapon. Calling forth frost in his off-hand, he shot an Icy Spear directly into the creature's face, and grinned as it howled in pain, shaking its head. Charging forward, and bringing all its strength behind its blade, it swung the greatsword in an overhand cleave that would have bifurcated the Dragonborn had it connected.

But Marcus saw the attack coming and deftly dodged out of the way. Another Icy Spear hit the Xivilai in the back of his head, and he roared again, even as Marcus struck out with the dragonborn sword. This time a line of ichor opened up along the daedra's side, and Marcus realized that what he thought had been armor was merely the creature's own tough hide.

Once more, the daedra lord bore down on the Dragonborn, who backed down the trail, away from gate. Partial walls rose up here, between the trail and the lava sea beyond. The razor spires jutted out here and there, and on the ground were curious, crown-shaped objects. As Marcus moved close to one, to avoid another attack from the Xivilai, the object rose, whirring and spinning, into the air, to explode in a blast of fire.

" _Augh!"_

His armor and ring took most of the damage, but it was the sudden surprise of the attack that startled him. He made a mental note to avoid those in future.

Frustrated, the Xivilai raised his greatsword overhead one more time, and Marcus attacked with dragonbone and ice.

" _IIZ SLEN NUS!"_ he roared out, and the Xivilai's face was contorted into a mask of surprise and pain as he was simultaneously laid open, and encased in ice. The light went out of them moments afterwards, even as the ice began melting in the heat of this realm. Marcus remained poised to attack again, should the daedra lord rise, but nothing happened. The creature was truly dead.

Breathing hard in the hot, sulphurous air, Marcus surveyed the area. To his left, a stone barricade kept the sea of lava at bay. To his right, the land rose up, obstructed by more of the bloodied talons, and culminated in the tower of steel and stone he had seen earlier. The only distinguishing feature in this hellish landscape, Marcus surmised the Sigil stone he was looking for would be kept in that tower. How to reach it, however, was proving problematic.

The trail he was on seemed to wrap itself around the left side of the tower, and instinctively, he crouched as he moved along, wary now of the whizzing, exploding land mines. Around the bend ahead, he could see more scamps, and loosened his bow from its sheath on his back. Arrows would suffice here, he thought. No sense calling undue attention to himself. It was one of the things Dante Greyshadow had emphasized. "Always go for stealth in any confrontation," he advised. "Especially when you're outnumbered, or up against a known enemy."

The scamps were easy to pick off. The Xivilai, less so. While the scamps would usually go down in one shot, the Daedric lords took two or three, just to soften them up. Then it required more hand-to-hand attention. Marcus worked his way almost completely around the tower in this manner, eliminating the hell spawn minions until he came to the end of the trail. Clambering up to the top of the wall confronting him, he realized there was nothing but lava ocean on the other side. He couldn't even see the Oblivion portal where he'd come in from here, though he had expected to.

"There has to be something I missed," he frowned to himself. "Maybe some kind of hidden tunnel or something." He turned around and carefully retraced his steps, being mindful of the land-mines and the turret towers that shot anything that moved that didn't belong here. It took some careful searching, and an encounter with a nasty weed that shot out a cloud of toxic fumes at him, before he finally found the door hidden in a corner near where he'd come in. Irritated at the wasted effort of traversing the entire trail, he entered.

If he'd thought the outside was bad, inside was far worse. The temperature in here was quite literally an oven. He could feel his skin tingling, even through the protection his armor and ring afforded him. He peered through the reddish-blackish gloom to find which way he should go from here, but it seemed the only way through was to jump down a hole.

 _Into what?_ he thought. Having no other options, however, he gripped his sword, still in his hand after the battle with the last Xivilai he fought, and jumped.

The cavern below was only marginally better than the one above. It was a bit less hot here, but clearance was an issue. With the ceiling only five and a half feet above the floor, Marcus – at six feet, two inches tall – was forced to crouch his way through the tunnels, looking for the way up and out. Scamps seemed to be around every corner, and the roots that dangled from the ceiling would sometimes actively whip out at him.

 _This place is worse than Australia,_ he noted sourly. _Everything here really_ does _want to kill me!_

As he fumbled his way blindly through the caverns, he noticed fleshy pods dangling in forgotten alcoves. He didn't want to think of which type of flesh had been used to make them, but opening one out of curiosity revealed the only pleasant surprise about this place – they typically contained potions, coins or other useful small items such as gems and jewelry, which he pocketed. He tried not to dwell on how the items had come there, or to whom they once belonged.

At last he found a door leading out, and exited the cavern into the less-stifling air of Oblivion. Again, he was required to follow the only available trail around the tower, avoiding minions, toxic plants, whizzing land mines and tumbling rockfalls, until he reached the base of the tower. There was no key, but the door pushed open when he tested it, and the Dragonborn stepped through.

It was dark in here, and he stooped silently by the door, letting his eyes adjust. There was a large central chamber with some sort of enormous brazier in the center, filled with glowing red coals. Around the perimeter there seemed to be a gallery, and he could see the central shaft of the tower was mostly open, though further up there seemed to be something obstructing his view. On either side of the door were hallways that wrapped around the first floor, and across from him, on the other side of the brazier, Marcus could see another Xivilai. This one wore robes, which meant it would likely conjure more Oblivion creatures, as the ones outside had done. It would also probably fire off shock spells at him, which he hated worse than fire or frost. Just beyond the Xivilai he could make out another door. That must be the way up, he reasoned, and decided to use the side hallways as a means of making his way over there, unnoticed.

Unfortunately, the Xivilai heard him, and brought in a creature that looked like a bipedal lizard on steroids. It was wielding a large battleaxe single-handedly, and Marcus knew he didn't want to find out how much damage it could do to his armor.

The lizard advanced, hissing and screeching, and the robed daedra targeted him with electricity. Gritting his teeth, he blocked the reptile's axe with the dragonbone sword and threw up a ward in his off-hand to block the spell. The force of the blow from the axe caused him to stagger back a pace or two, but he allowed the momentum to drop his sword down and roll under the creature's arm, getting behind it to put it between him and the Xivilai's next spell, which was already on its way. The lightning hit the lizard, and the creature stiffened in agony, before blinking out of existence.

Frowning in consternation, the daedra moved away several paces to attempt to summon another creature, but Marcus blew him against the wall with his Unrelenting Force. As the Xivilai attempted to get to its feet, the Dragonborn rushed forward to strike it down. Breathing hard again, Marcus took a moment to catch his breath before going through the door. There could be no doubt in his mind; the exertions he was being forced to perform, in the sweltering heat of this place, were beginning to take their toll on him. He pulled his waterskin up from his belt and took a long drink. Even that was tepid, but at least it was liquid. He recorked it and hooked it in its place before opening the door and continuing up through the tower.

The next several levels were a series of ramps and hallways – double-blind passages, really – that were filled with traps and creatures. Marcus avoided the traps he could find, and endured the ones he could not. He avoided what creatures he could, and fought only when he had no choice, to conserve his strength as he went.

"The Sigil stone was always at the top of the tallest tower," Tamsyn had told him when he asked her, the night before. "Sometimes there would only be one tower, sometimes more. Sometimes I would have to open several gates, to get access to other areas, in order to move forward. I never played _Oblivion_ as often as I did _Skyrim,_ but I did enjoy the game, and I did manage to get through it to the end."

"So how do I close the gate?" Marcus had asked. "Without being trapped inside the realm of Oblivion, that is."

"You just take the Sigil stone from its receptacle," she replied. "Once you do that, it shuts the gate down, and you're transported back to Mundus in the place where the gate was. At least, that's how it worked in the game. I can only assume it's the same here. Everything else we've experienced has pretty much been the same…that is, when we stuck to the script." She'd given him one of her most impish smiles, and he smirked back as he kissed her.

Now, as he climbed higher, he realized the creatures were getting stronger and tougher. The worst were the spider-daedra he and Tamsyn had seen crawling along the pinnacle upon which the College sat. Just as his wife had pointed out, they would spawn a smaller version of themselves from a distance, which would creep up and try to poison him with their paralyzing sting. His frost breath made short work of them, however, and he reserved his _thu'um_ for those times when he was in danger of being flanked or outnumbered.

After a grueling climb that seemed to last an eternity, he finally reached the top-most level of the tower. For the last several floors, the central shaft of the structure was filled with a brilliant column of fiery energy, powered – he assumed – by the Sigil stone. The nearly overwhelming smell of brimstone made his eyes water, and there was a constant roaring of energy in this chamber, every time he came back to it. There were two ramps leading to an upper area which housed the Sigil's pedestal, and he swallowed the rising gorge that threatened to choke him as he realized those ramps were made from flayed skin.

Two Dremora patrolled either side of the chamber, and Marcus knew from Mehrunes Dagon's shrine just how powerful these Daedric Lords could be. Overhead, he saw the shadows of three more figures guarding the stone itself. This wouldn't be easy.

Slipping back around the doorway, out of sight, he considered his options. Rushing in was completely out of the question. He was already outnumbered. If any of the daedra in the chamber were conjurers, he'd be in way over his head. Using his Shout to call for help would likely do him no good. He didn't know about this realm of Oblivion, but he had been unable to use the _thu'um_ in Apocrypha, so he could only assume it would be the same here.

The other possibility was using his own summoned creatures. He had been working on improving his inner wellspring of magicka since returning from Solstheim – which had delighted Tamsyn no end – but he was nowhere close to the level his wife held. He could summon a Frost Atronach, but it likely wouldn't last long in this heat. He almost wished he had Tamsyn's Sanguine Rose staff to help him, though the daedra he could bring forth likely wouldn't be as strong as the ones here which it would have to fight.

 _And she_ still _hasn't told me how she got it,_ he thought privately, a faint smile crossing his lips. He had already accepted the fact that she probably never would.

Though clad in dragonplate armor, he had managed to improve his ability to move around more quietly, though he would never rival the Grey Fox in that regard. Still, it might serve to use stealth here, or at least make an attempt to do so. Tamsyn had enchanted his boots with a Muffle effect, so he knew he wouldn't make much noise. It wouldn't help, however, if one of the daedra was looking in his direction.

 _It's a good time to try Invisibility,_ he thought. He seldom had cause to use it, preferring a straight fight as opposed to sneaking about, but this was a special case. He needed to reach the Sigil stone and grab it before he was overwhelmed. If he could take out one or two of the daedra waiting inside before the others noticed, he stood a better chance of coming out of this alive.

Opening the door a crack, he peered in to make sure he could slip in without being noticed, before firing off his Illusion spell. Everything was going perfectly until he rounded the end of ramp, which was at the opposite side of the chamber from the door, and ran right into the Dremora he hadn't seen on his first perusal of the area.

 _ **Gah!**_ the creature roared. Marcus realized he was visible once more.

 _Crap!_

Without thinking, he shot an Icy Spear into the daedra's face and bolted up the flayed flesh ramp, cringing at the slippery texture, and the way it bounced like a rubber band as he ran.

The Dremora was still clawing at the gigantic icicle that skewered its face, and its screeches alerted the five others in the chamber. The two on the lower level, that Marcus had avoided while invisible, now galloped towards the closest ramp, which happened to come up the other side of the tower. It meant he would be facing five creatures in front of him by the time he got up there – six, if the one behind him recovered from the frost attack.

As he reached the top of the ramp, he could see a Xivilai mage and two warriors turning in his direction. The mage sent out a shock spell that would have hurt like hell had it hit. Marcus managed to get behind a support post which took the brunt of the attack. The two warriors were converging on him, and he could see, just beyond the glowing Sigil stone, the two Dremora clambering up the ramp. They were clustered together perfectly.

" _FUS RO DAH!"_

The force of his _thu'um_ blew the two warriors into the mage and carried all three of them off the platform. The two Dremora still ahead of him managed to avoid most of the Shout, as they were still mostly below platform level, and ducked when they saw their allies coming at them. Marcus made a dash for the Sigil stone, sword drawn, and was forced to block a blow from the first Dremora's greatsword before he could grab the gate key from its receptacle.

The second Dremora came around the left side of its companion to attack Marcus on the right, and he ducked the swing of the battleaxe and jabbed upwards with the dragonbone blade. A satisfying crunch, like a sharp knife through crusty bread, met his ears as the blade found the daedra's heart. The first Dremora hit him on his unguarded left side, but the blade from hell merely scraped against the pauldron made from dragonbone.

His next attack with the dragonbone blade was blocked, and as the Dremora pulled back to swing again, Marcus shot him with a Thunderbolt from his left hand. The shock attack staggered the daedra, and its foot slipped on the edge of the platform. Windmilling its arms wildly, it teetered, trying to regain its balance. Marcus gave a feral grin.

" _FUS!"_ he said succinctly.

It was enough. The hell-spawned creature lost its balance and careened down the shaft to the tower base.

Footsteps were causing the ramp behind him to twang like an elastic band, and Marcus wasted no time waiting to confront the third Dremora. Sheathing his sword, he stepped over to the Sigil stone and grabbed it with both hands. It was the size of a soccer ball, and as he took hold of it, the column of energy in the center of the shaft began to expand and intensify. Marcus shut his eyes against the bright light, but never let go of the stone. He heard things breaking apart and crashing around him, but trusted that Tamsyn was right. A wave of heat washed over him and was suddenly gone. At once, he felt incredibly chilled. Opening his eyes, he could see he stood on the top of the Arch-Mage's tower at the College, with Skyrim spread out below him, and he let out a sigh of relief. From somewhere below, however, he heard the sounds of battle still continuing. Moving to the parapet, he looked down into the courtyard, where combat still raged. He sighed as he headed for the stairs leading down. He had accomplished something very significant here, he knew, but the battle wasn't won yet.

* * *

Azura charged into the Midden chamber where the Oblivion gate had been erected. The two Dremora roared out a challenge as she ducked the first blow aimed at her and swiped with Grave across the rib cage of the second daedra. The Xivilai mage backed up near the door a quarter of the way around the chamber from the entrance through which Tamsyn and Azura had entered. Raising its hands, it conjured up a clannfear which lumbered towards the Bosmer mage.

Tamsyn threw Thunderbolt at it, throwing up a ward in the process. Crossing swiftly to Azura's back, she turned to face the other Dremora that attempted to flank her friend.

 _ **Pain! Suffering! Death!**_ the Dremora roared, swinging its spiky mace. The heavy weapon merely skittered off Tamsyn's ward, and the Daedric creature looked perplexed.

 _ **Not possible!**_ it growled.

"Quite possible!" Tamsyn grinned. "I created this spell myself. My Ward will stop physical attacks, as well as magical ones!"

Behind the Dremora, Tamsyn could see the clannfear in a crumpled heap on the floor. The Xivilai mage was pacing in frustrated rage, electricity dancing from its own hands, as it waited for Tamsyn to run out of magicka maintaining her ward.

She smiled sweetly at him. "I can do this all day, boys."

"We don't have all day," Azura reminded her, grunting in effort as Sting blocked another blow from the Dremora's mace. "Stop playing around and even the odds a bit!"

"You're no fun," Tamsyn pouted, but she obliged her friend by firing off an Icy Spear into the second Dremora's face. It staggered back and clawed at the icicle that had sprouted in its head, and Tamsyn sent a second towards the Xivilai mage, who dodged it by backing down the corridor leading up to the first level of the Midden. The reprieve gave the Arch-Mage a chance to conjure a Storm Atronach, which she sent after the mage.

Azura blocked another blow from the Dremora facing her and cut deeply with Grave, feeling its shudder at the frost attack even through her blade. It broke from her and made a dash for the Oblivion gate, with Azura close behind.

"No, wait, Azura!" Tamsyn called, but it was too late. Her Bosmer friend had already followed the creature through. "Damn!" she cursed under her breath. If she left now, her Storm Atronach would cease to exist before it could kill the Xivilai mage, and there would still be two Dremora on this side, waiting for them when they returned. In a fit of pique, she launched another Thunderbolt at the Dremora lord, not even watching it fly as she blasted it across the room. Following her Atronach, which had somehow managed to squeeze itself into the corridor, she found it patiently waiting at the door leading up into the Midden proper. The Xivilai had escaped, for now.

"Damn it!" she cursed again. It was a tell-tale sign of frustration for her, as Tamsyn seldom cursed. Brought up on Gaea, in an age where women simply didn't talk like that, it was always a shock for Marcus when she did. But he wasn't here right now, and neither was her friend. She knew Azura couldn't possibly be prepared for what might be on the other side of the Gate, so she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and plunged through.

She found Azura healing herself, with the Dremora dead at her feet. The Bosmer mage turned quickly when she heard footsteps approaching her from behind, then relaxed when she saw who it was.

"The other daedra?" she asked.

"I killed the Dremora," Tamsyn said, then shrugged apologetically. "The mage got away, though."

"I would have preferred it the other way around," Azura frowned. "The Dremora don't usually summon more things to fight."

"It couldn't be helped," Tamsyn shot back. "You forced my decision when you followed that one through the Gate. The others will just have to manage without us for a bit. Besides, I was worried about you. You're the closest friend I have."

Azura smiled. "Thank you. You know I can handle myself, but it's nice to hear. So, where exactly are we?"

Tamsyn looked around. They were facing a large steel gate that was flanked by two turrets. On both sides of the gate was a sea of lava. Beyond it, out of their reach, rose a large tower. In the distance, to either side, were two more towers connected by causeways to the central one. To their left and right were trails leading around the lava seas, and Tamsyn knew they would eventually lead to the two flanking towers, where levers needed to be pulled to open the gate before them. But she also knew of a faster way to get to their destination.

"This is one of the planes of Oblivion that Mehrunes Dagon used to funnel his minions into Mundus during the Oblivion Crisis," she told Azura. "That tower there, ahead of us, is where the Sigil stone is held. The Sigil stone controls and powers the Oblivion Gate behind us, which we can't get back through at the moment."

"You mean we're stuck here?" Azura exclaimed, horrified. The thought of never seeing her husband again threatened to overwhelm her.

"No!" Tamsyn said firmly. "If we get that Sigil stone, it shuts down the Gate and we get sent back to Nirn because we aren't part of this realm."

Azura felt herself relax, but only marginally. "Alright, so how do we get past this gate in front of us, to get to the tower where the stone is kept? That wall goes all the way to the lava."

"But not beyond it," Tamsyn pointed out. "We could, in theory, go to each tower, fighting denizens of Oblivion all along the way, and throw the switches that open this gate. Or…"

"Or…?"

"Or we slip around the end of the wall and bypass the gate completely," Tamsyn finished.

"That's easy enough for you to say," Azura groused. "You can fly. I can't. And the last time I checked, I don't swim well in lava."

"Have you had an opportunity to actually do that?" Tamsyn wondered, startled.

"No, silly!" Azura replied. "I was being facetious."

"Oh," Tamsyn said, shaking her head sheepishly. "I wouldn't put it past you, though. There's still a lot about you I don't know!"

"I like to think I'm an open book," Azura said primly.

"In any case," Tamsyn continued, "it may not be as bad as you think. You have Ahzidal's boots, remember?"

"Will they work on lava?" the Bosmer mage asked, doubtfully.

Tamsyn shrugged. "I don't see why not. Lava is still technically a liquid. But I wouldn't linger. A mad dash would serve better, in this instance. I've got an uber-strong potion of fire resistance you can drink. That will help, too."

"'Uber?'" Azura queried, cocking a finely-arched eyebrow.

"Super strong," Tamsyn clarified. "Very, very strong."

"What about those?" Azura asked, pointing to the two turrets. "What are they there for?"

"They'll shoot us down with fireballs if we get too close," Tamsyn said. "We take them out first."

This was easier said than done. The turrets were made of stone and a hardened kind of metal, like ebony, that resisted elemental attacks against them. In the end, Azura used a Quake spell she had developed back in Solstheim while still under Neloth's tutelage to topple the two guardian towers.

"That just leaves getting past the gate, then," she said, satisfied.

"Would your Quake spell work on it?" Tamsyn asked.

Azura shook her head. "It's too big," she explained. "And it's anchored on both sides. I can only affect a small area with Quake."

"Then we either seek out the levers in the other towers," Tamsyn shrugged, "or we attempt to go around the gate."

Azura sighed. "Well, we've got nothing to lose by trying," she said. "I have Ahzidal's mask, as well, and an amulet I enchanted with fire and shock protection."

"Not frost?" Tamsyn grinned.

"I have Dukaan's mask for that," the Bosmer mage pointed out. She pulled Ahzidal's mask off her belt as she spoke and settled it securely over her face, lifting it only long enough to drink Tamsyn's potion. Settling the mask back down, she said, muffled, "Let's do this now, before I lose my courage!"

Tamsyn lifted herself into the hot, oppressive air as the wood elf sprinted for the edge of the wall where it met the lava sea. She shrieked as her foot hit the molten rock, but did not sink in, and did not recoil, but pushed herself forward and around the edge of the steel gate.

Tamsyn quailed inside, hovering near, as her friend leaped as lightly as she could across the top of the magma sea. She saw movement from the tale of her eyes. Two scamps on the other side of the gate were moving towards them. An ice spike into each of them crumpled them in their tracks, as Azura made it to solid land. Her boots were smoking, and she was moaning.

"I'm so sorry, Azura!" Tamsyn cried, firing off the strongest healing spell she knew at her friend. Azura had crawled back several feet from the edge of the lava, and had pulled off the boots to examine them. Under Tamsyn's ministrations, the blisters on her feet rapidly vanished, and her autumn-hued skin resumed its normal, healthy glow. "I never would have suggested this if I thought the boots wouldn't protect you!"

"Not your fault, Tamsyn," Azura insisted, as the pain subsided. "If I wasn't willing to take the risk, I wouldn't have done it. Simple as that. But look at my poor boots!"

Tamsyn did, and her heart sank. The leather portions were charred black, and the steel reinforcing plates had taken on a slightly shiny look, as if partially melted.

"Are they still enchanted?" Tamsyn worried. "Or did we booger that up?"

A faint smile crossed Azura's face. "You and your husband have the most interesting euphemisms! I think the boots might be alright," she continued, passing her hands over them. "Yes, I can still feel magic radiating from them. I don't want to try that again, though, if we can help it. It might destroy them completely." She put them back on.

"I agree," Tamsyn nodded. "But we shouldn't have to worry about that from here on in. We just need to get to the top of the tower and get the Sigil stone."

Azura got to her feet, wincing only slightly. "Let's go, then. The sooner we get it, the sooner we can get out of here." She shuddered. "I thought I hated Apocrypha, but this place is _much_ worse!"

The two women creeped into the lowest chamber of the tower and quickly took out the minions waiting there. Following the corridors that wrapped themselves up and around the circumference of the structure, they worked their way to the top, watching each other's backs. Tamsyn pulled Azura back from a guillotine-type trap before the Bosmer mage even realized it was there. Azura blasted a Xivilai hiding behind a fountain pumping out blood when Tamsyn was occupied fighting a Dremora. And so it went, up and up, until they reached the top floor, just under the Sigil Stone. A column of fiery energy illuminated the room with its reddish-yellow light.

"Are those ramps made of…of _skin?"_ Azura whispered harshly, sickened.

Tamsyn nodded. "The Sigil Stone is up there," she murmured, pointing up to the platform overhead. "We'll both need to grab it at the same time."

"Just like Marcus and I did with the Black Books," her friend nodded. She cast a Detect Life spell silently, and four shapes glowed while the spell remained active.

"Can you handle two?" Tamsyn asked her. "We can split up and meet up above."

"I can handle two," Azura assured her. "Let me know when you're ready."

"I'm ready now."

They entered the chamber and split up, with Azura following the left side and Tamsyn the right. The Dremora on Tamsyn's side were prowling back and forth, as if alerted that something wasn't quite right. She quickly went invisible and prepared Lightning Storm. A Master-level Destruction spell, she seldom used it because unlike other targeted spells that caused elemental damage, Lightning Storm was only active as long as she concentrated on it, which caused a steady drain on her Magicka. In this instance, however, she felt the toll would be worth it to take out both Dremora in quick succession.

As soon as she was close enough, she unleashed the storm, knowing she was now visible, and vulnerable.

Azura used a similar tactic on her side, getting close enough to her target invisibly before sneaking up behind it and drawing Grave across its throat. The Dremora gargled as it collapsed, drawing the attention of the other Dremora at the foot of the ramp. It charged, roaring, raising its two-handed Daedric battleaxe over its head. Azura leaped nimbly out of the way of its swing, stabbing its back with Sting and working her way up the ramp. A brilliant white light – completely out of place in this realm – lit up the other side of the chamber, and the Dremora turned, distracted. Azura took advantage of this to slip Grave in under its guard and slice it open along the rib cage. It didn't drop the creature, however, and she was forced to back up the slippery ramp to avoid its next attack.

But the creature was also heavier than the feather-weight Bosmer, and sank deeper into the tautly-stretched skin of the ramp. Azura scrambled higher, and the Dremora lumbered clumsily after her. Sheathing Sting, she launched an Icy Spear directly into the hell-spawn's face, smiling grimly as it roared and clawed at the frozen lance that had suddenly sprouted in its head. She followed through with a stab from Grave, and watched with satisfaction as the Dremora seized and tumbled backwards back down the grisly gradient.

Making her way to the top, she saw Tamsyn sparring with a Dremora mage, trading spell for spell, both with wards ready to block. From here, she could see past the glowing, sizzling Sigil stone to the bottom of the ramp opposite to hers. There were no bodies – only two smoking piles of ash.

Azura could see that Tamsyn was getting the better of the Dremora mage, but she caught the Breton woman's eye and inclined her head slightly towards the demon, indicating her intention to interfere. Tamsyn gave her a short nod, and Azura launched an Icy Spear towards the creature. Now, flanked by two accomplished mages, the Dremora went down quickly, unable to ward against both.

"I didn't want to intervene if you didn't need the help," Azura apologized.

"I'm not proud," Tamsyn laughed. "And I'm not a glory-seeker. If someone wants to jump in and help, I'm more than willing to accept it! Now, let's get that stone!"

They approached the stone, Azura with some trepidation, and positioned themselves on either side. "On three," Tamsyn said.

" _Really_ on three?" Azura insisted. "Your husband has been known to – how did he put it – 'jump the bowshot'."

"Really on three," Tamsyn assured her. "I'm not Marcus. Ready? One…two…three!"

Both women grabbed the stone at the same time, and clung to it as the tower collapsed around them and they felt themselves shifted out of the Oblivion realm. Bright light, too intense for eyes to endure surrounded them, and though she squeezed hers shut, Azura could still see…and feel…the light all around her. When it subsided, she opened her eyes and found herself still holding the stone with Tamsyn on the other side, in the same chamber they had left not long before. Velekh Sain's closed gauntlet stood once more next to them. All traces of the Oblivion Gate had vanished.

"Whew!" Tamsyn sighed. "That's one down, one more to go," she said wearily. Casting the Master-level spell, followed by an extended mage's battle with the Dremora, had taken its toll. She could feel how depleted her Magicka reserves were.

"There's another one?" Azura worried.

"I know there's one at the top of the Hall of the Elements," Tamsyn said, "but I won't ask you to go through it."

"Don't worry about me," the Bosmer mage said staunchly. "Now that we've been through one, I know how to navigate my way through."

"No, actually, you don't," Tamsyn smiled. "Each gate opens into a different portion of Mehrunes Dagon's realm. Each one is different."

"How do you know this?" Azura demanded. "There are no books anywhere that speak of Dagon's realm, or what to expect there."

"That's not entirely true," Tamsyn demurred. "There's a book called _The Doors of Oblivion,_ by a scholar named Seif-ij Hidja, that describes his master's trips through several Oblivion realms."

"I've read that book," Azura said drily. "It doesn't describe what we've been through. You speak as if you've had personal experience. Come on, Tamsyn, out with it. What have you been doing?"

Tamsyn hesitated. So few people knew who she truly was, but Azura was one of them. It had been while they were both in Apocrypha that the secret of her heritage had been revealed – that she was the daughter of Julianos himself, the god of wisdom and magic. As she gazed at the woman she called her closest friend, Tamsyn felt guilty. One of her biggest flaws in her past life had been pushing people away who should have been the closest to her.

Part of it was an abandonment complex, she knew. Her father had "died" in the second World War, so she had believed, and she knew she had spent the rest of her life looking for a father figure. Her husband, George, had been fun to be with in the early years of their marriage, but the relationship cooled after Randall and Sarah were born and she no longer wanted to go out to wild parties with him.

He hired a nanny to look after the children, so she wouldn't have to, and for a while things were as they had been. But George wasn't willing to be a father-figure, to her or their children. Obsessed with work and making money, he was away more than he was home, and Tamsyn – who never considered cheating on him – involved herself with hobbies to occupy her time. Horses became her obsession, and she purchased a small farm to care for horses that had been rescued from abusive situations. Her son and daughter learned to ride, but never bothered to learn to care for the horses.

As they grew, her children drifted further and further away from her, until by the time they entered college they were all but strangers to her. George had moved out by that time, but her lawyers made certain she shared the wealth he had accumulated. She spent her remaining years on her farm, until she could no longer take care of either it or herself. Randall and Sarah insisted she go to a nursing home, and by then she was willing to go.

It was her nurse, Caitlyn, who brought a spark of joy back into her life. Caitlyn, with her bubbly personality and optimistic outlook on life. Tamsyn's own grandchildren only ever spent the barest minimum amount of time with her before insisting they wanted to leave, and Tamsyn really couldn't blame them. She didn't know them, and found them to be as self-absorbed as her own children had turned out. And that, she knew, had been her fault.

But Caitlyn was there, day after day, taking care of her, and telling her all about the things going on in her life and her hopes and dreams for the future.

"I don't have any grandparents," Caitlyn had told her. "My Dad's parents died in an accident when he was still young. My mom's Dad died in Vietnam and my grandma on that side had a heart attack the day my mom got out of college. I suppose that's one reason I applied for the job here," she continued, laughing. "Now I have an endless supply of grandparents!"

"But don't you want more than to take care of old people?" Tamsyn had asked.

"Oh, of course I do, Mrs. B.," Caitlyn replied. "I mean, I still want to take care of older people, but I want to be a doctor! It's just that…I don't know yet how I'm going to do that. College is expensive, and I'll never be higher than a CNA with the degree I have right now from the community college. But I'll figure something out. Something will come along." And she had smiled that sunny smile of hers, and Tamsyn had called her lawyer that evening to begin making arrangements.

Now, in another life and in another world, her world of second chances, Tamsyn looked into Azura's milk-chocolate colored eyes – so unusual for a Bosmer – and made another resolution.

She told Azura everything, there in the Midden Dark, in front of Velekh Sain's gauntlet.

"By the Nine…" Azura swore softly. "That explains a lot of things! I mean, the fact that you're Julianos' daughter, I already knew, but all that other stuff. This was all just a _game?"_

"Hard to believe, I know," Tamsyn smiled. "When I woke up in that cart, right before Marcus did, I knew exactly where I was, but I couldn't believe it was real. I thought I'd fallen asleep playing the game, and that Caitlyn would come in any minute, and take the controller from my hands, waking me up." She sobered. "But that didn't happen, and everything that followed was all too real!" She shuddered at the memory of Helgen's death-throes.

"Does Enthir know?" Azura asked.

Tamsyn shook her head. "Not as far as I know. I haven't told him, and I'm pretty sure Marcus hasn't. We've tried to keep it quiet. Only a handful of people know the truth. It's just too far-fetched to be believed. People will think we've been touched by Sheogorath."

"Well, I believe you," Azura said firmly. "And I'm glad you trust me enough to have told me."

"I said it before," Tamsyn smiled, "and I meant it. You're my best friend."

The two women hugged briefly. "I won't tell Enthir," Azura promised. "For right now, he really doesn't need to know. I love that mer, but he _does_ tend to run off at the mouth. He might blurt something out that's best left unsaid."

"Thank you," Tamsyn said, sincerely. "I really count on his advice, though, even if I don't always take it!" she chuckled, then sobered. "But we should join the fight upstairs. There's a chance others have somehow survived. We should try to get to the Arcaneum."

"I agree," Azura said. "But what about the sload? We didn't find it. It might summon up another gate."

"It might," Tamsyn agreed, "but doing so takes an enormous amount of energy, and it has conjured two already. It will need time to recover from that. We'll use that time to reduce the number of enemies and see if any of our people have survived."

Azura nodded, and the two women headed up the stairs that led to the upper Midden.

* * *

Enthir surveyed the number of students left. It had been almost two hours. Colleen had finally come around, though she still felt woozy. Kalven was helping Onmund and J'Zargo tend the lesser wounds everyone had suffered. A few of the Apprentice-level Restoration students were working very hard trying to ease the suffering of those more gravely injured. There weren't as many of those, but then again, there weren't as many students now as he'd had going into the fight. He shook his head in self-disgust. He'd botched the entire operation. He'd put inexperienced students up against something they were in no way prepared for.

 _But this is what they could face, if the Dominion launches its attack against us,_ he thought with exasperation. He counted heads, and didn't like the number he came up with. Nearly a third of the novices and apprentices were dead, another score or more were severely injured. They were stabilized for now, and were beginning to take on healing themselves, but they wouldn't survive another frontal assault.

But the murmurs of the students he heard weren't all pain and misery. Some of them were actually congratulating each other on their efforts.

"You were great, hitting that scamp behind the bush like that!" one exclaimed.

"Thanks!" came the reply. "I saw it sneaking up behind Rega when she was taking out the clannfear with her Lightning Bolt. Did you see that?"

"Sweet on Rega, are you?" the first one teased.

"Oh, shut up!" But there was laughter in the response.

It was the same throughout the camp, Enthir realized. Though many were well aware how badly they had been beaten back, they were still thrilled to have done their part defending the College, and seemed prepared to do it again.

"You just wait until we catch our breath!" a third-year student boasted, though there was worry in his eyes. "We'll get back up there and give them what for!"

"Yeah!" another cried. "We'll meet the Dragonborn coming down the stairs of the Hall of the Elements!"

"Ha ha!" a third one laughed. "And he'll say, 'Where's all the enemies?' and we'll say, 'We killed them all!'" Those who weren't badly injured seemed to rally at the encouraging words.

"Bold talk for a group of novices," J'Zargo murmured in Enthir's ear, and he jumped slightly.

"I've told you before, J'Zargo," he snapped, more harshly than he intended, "don't sneak up on me like that!"

"This one apologizes," the Khajiit replied, abashed. "But J'Zargo cannot help but wonder what our next move is to be?"

"I'm thinking," Enthir hedged.

"You'd better think fast," Onmund said, coming in on the last comment. "In spite of our lack of glowing success, these youngsters are ready to assault the courtyard again."

"The runes should hold the two residence halls for the moment," Enthir replied.

"But the demons will still be able to reach the walls from the upper levels," J'Zargo pointed out.

"Where's Odahviing?" Onmund asked. "Couldn't we get him to sweep the upper levels?"

"The dragon only listens to Marcus," Enthir replied, shaking his head. "If he hasn't gotten bored, with the Dragonborn not even on this plane of existence, and flown off to find some other kind of fun. No, we'll have to rely on ourselves."

"What about the Arch-Mage, and Master Azura?" Kalven asked, approaching them now. "They went into the Midden. Shouldn't we try to reach them?"

"I trust the Arch-Mage and my wife to be able to handle themselves," Enthir said sharply. "Our task is to try and clear the main level, and that means the courtyard and anything above it."

A sudden distant explosion from the direction of the College made all their heads turn. At the top of the Hall of the Elements, a fireball went up.

"He did it!" Onmund cried, elated. "The Dragonborn destroyed the Oblivion Gate!"

A cheer went up from the students in the camp, even the ones badly injured.

"That's our cue," Enthir said, making a snap decision. "With that Gate destroyed, the influx of daedra will be drastically reduced. Those of you who still can, come with me. The rest of you, work on your Restoration spells by healing yourselves."

He led his pitifully small army of novices and apprentices back through town once more and up the causeway to the College. The runes they had laid down not long before were still holding, keeping a much smaller number of daedra at bay. As they approached, Odahviing swept by, breathing out another chilling blast that froze the spider-daedra still clinging to the sides of the pinnacle upon which the College was situated. Enthir waved his group forward, with the most experienced mages in front, sending out shock and frost spells. Behind them came the novices, ready to cover their flanks. They pushed forward into the courtyard, past the first energy well, reverted back to magicka now that the Gate had been destroyed.

Demoralized now, the daedra fought a desperate rear-guard action to retreat to the only other safety they knew: the Gate in the Midden Dark. From the upper wall around the courtyard they dropped down and scurried for the hatches. Some came out of the residence halls and vaporized as they crossed the holy runes in front of the doors. This caused some confusion for the daedra behind them, and in that confusion, Enthir and his team struck.

Onmund took charge of a group of eight apprentices and forced their way into the Hall of Countenance, with much more satisfying results this time. Laying down holy runes in front of the spiral staircase, they picked off stragglers attempting to get to the doorway that led to the Midden under the stairs. J'Zargo worked a similar strategy in the Hall of Attainment. Enthir and his team had their backs in the courtyard, keeping runes in front of the Hall of the Elements, as well as the hatches to the Midden, and taking out scamps and clannfear attempting to drop down on top of them from the walls, and the roofs of the Lustratorium.

The sun was setting, though, and Enthir knew the students were wearing out. If they couldn't beat the daedra back to a secure location soon, they would have to retreat to regain their strength. Regaining magicka was no longer a problem, as all the students had learned how to tap into the magicka wells.

A muffled _boom_ , and a slight rippling under foot made everyone pause. Then suddenly the daedra remaining outside became frantic, running every which way, looking for an escape route. Several ran out the gate and were incinerated crossing the runes. Many leaped back to the tops of the walls and disappeared into the fading light of evening. Outside the walls, Enthir could hear the resounding roar of a dragon enjoying himself as Odahviing targeted the fleeing daedra.

"What's happened, Master Enthir?" Kalven asked.

"I don't know," he shrugged. "My guess is that there was another Gate in the Midden that the Arch-Mage and my wife somehow eliminated. These daedra are trapped here now, with no way back to Oblivion."

"That's going to be a problem for the townsfolk," Kalven frowned.

"Hmm, maybe," Enthir mused. "They haven't made any attempt to cross the Channel, and they can't get past the runes at the gate. Still, it might be wise to grab a handful of these youngsters and head back to camp. The rest of us will wait for Onmund and J'Zargo and their crews. Take out any daedra you find on the way, if you can."

"Yes, sir!" Kalven saluted, and hurried off with his team.

Enthir waited with the dozen or so novices left to him. They kept close to the magicka pool in the center of the courtyard, with the statue of Shalidor standing silent sentinel above them. It was a half-hour before Onmund returned, having lost only one of his team.

"Hall of Countenance is clear," he reported. "Where's J'Zargo?"

"He hasn't returned yet," Enthir said. "Leave your crew with me. I'd like you to escort the novices back down to camp. Check in with Kalven to see if they found any escaping daedra on the way. Once you've done that, grab anyone who can still fight and bring them back here."

Onmund nodded and headed off with the youngest mages.

"What about the Hall of the Elements?" an Imperial girl asked. She wore the grey robes of an apprentice, with a penannular that denoted her chosen school; in this case, Conjuration.

"What's your name?" Enthir asked.

"Rega," the girl replied.

 _Oh, so this is Rega,_ he mused.

"Well, Rega," Enthir said slowly, "we're going to stay right here until J'Zargo comes out and Onmund returns. We're not going into a place like the Hall of the Elements, that was riddled with daedra that have no way out, with only a couple handfuls of apprentice mages. If we're really lucky, the Dragonborn will meet us halfway in there, but we can't count on that. Our best bet is to stay put and make sure nothing else comes out of the Lustratorium, or either residence hall."

Satisfied, Rega subsided. Enthir set watches, and they all settled down to wait.

* * *

Marcus had cleared the Arch-Mage's quarters, but he had been required to use the orb at the top of the central stairs that led to the inner sanctum, to make sure there weren't any daedra lurking here. He'd found a few, including a Xivilai he'd taken by surprise, who was going through some of Tamsyn's artifacts. Some of the things she and Marcus had found in their travels had ended up here, including her dragon priest masks, and a few of the claw keys Marcus had found in various barrows and crypts. Some were potent artifacts she chose to keep away from prying eyes and thieving hands, such as her Sanguine Rose staff, the Wabbajack, and Meridia's sword, Dawnbreaker.

"We really need to have a more secure location to put these in," she had said, but as neither one could think of a better place than her inner sanctum, here they remained.

And the Xivilai had been rummaging through them. He'd made short work of the daedra, then returned to work his way down the stairs. One flight would take him to the level of the Arcaneum, the other led straight down to the Hall of the Elements. He chose the Arcaneum.

Several Dremora were there, waiting for him, but where the entryway should have opened to the actual library, there was nothing but a blank stone wall, and the daedra were blasting and hitting it with everything they had. The stone had cracks in only a few places, but had held strong, and a quick Aura Whisper revealed to Marcus the reason for the Dremora's interest: there were at least a score of people taking refuge on the other side. Many were prone. He didn't like the looks of that.

" _KRII LUN AUS!"_ he bellowed, hitting all four of the Dremora in front of him. They staggered, never having felt the effects of a _thu'um_ before.

One of the Dremora Lords shrugged it off and came at him, growling, _**I honor my Lord, by destroying you!  
**_

"Bring it, Skippy!" Marcus taunted. The dragonbone sword flashed out, and the demon blocked it with its own Daedric blade. Twisting it around, it nearly disarmed Marcus, who had to side-step to keep from losing his weapon. The daedra grinned cruelly as it bore down on the Dragonborn, but this wasn't Marcus' first trip around the block. He rolled with the pressure put on his blade and ended up behind his opponent. Slashing behind the creature, he hamstrung it, and it howled as it crashed to its knees. A growl behind him, however, made him realized he was now, literally, the center of attention for the other three daedra.

One of them summoned a clannfear and sent it after Marcus, who jumped onto the display table in the middle of the vestibule to avoid the slashing claws. A second Dremora mage summoned a spider-daedra, and Marcus realized he may have bit off more than he could chew.

" _HUN KAAL!"_

A portal opened, and Felldir the Old, glowing with the aura of Sovngarde, stepped through.

" _Well met, Dragonborn!"_ the First Tongue called. _"It would seem you have need of me once more."_

"You have a gift for understatement, Felldir!" Marcus gasped, narrowly avoiding a slash from the third Dremora. "Can you take out the summoners for me?"

" _Gladly, my friend!"_ the ancient Greybeard chortled. _"I have little enough opportunities to practice my craft in Sovngarde."_

With the odds shifted ever so slightly in his favor, and with the Hero of old at his back, Marcus found he could now concentrate on the two Dremora Lords still attempting to flank him. Though one was crippled on its knees, it refused to give up.

A flash behind him told him that Felldir had managed to banish one of the daedra. He'd seen the old Greybeard do something similar back in the sewers of Wayrest, though he'd had help from the former Blade, Clarice, who had smashed the phylactery keeping the summoned demon bound to this plane. Here there was no phylactery. These were simply daedra gated into this world, who now had no way back.

He blocked the blow from the Dremora on his right, the crippled one, and shot a Lightning Bolt into the face of the one on his left. That one had clambered onto the stone table with him, and now staggered back, slipping and falling to the floor with a heavy thud. The crippled one made another stab at him, but Marcus, with the advantage of height, bashed the blade away with his dragonbone sword and swept it around to take off the demon's head. It rolled into a corner with a sickly squish, leaving a trail of ichor as it went.

Another flash, and the second Dremora mage vaporized, sent back to Oblivion. Felldir calmly turned and shot the last one, rising to climb onto the table once more, with an Icy Spear, just as Marcus swept across its chest with his sword. The creature fell to the floor and twitched once or twice before it lay still.

"Whew!" Marcus gasped. "Thanks, Felldir! I owe you one."

" _You owe me no debt, Dragonborn,"_ the Ancient Tongue smiled. _"Now, release your friends from their self-enforced prison."_

Marcus felt his heart sink. "I…I don't know how," he said. "One of the mages put it up. I don't know how to breach it. Even the daedra couldn't get through."

" _Then I will teach you a Shout that will allow you to bypass their spell,"_ Felldir smiled. _"Come. Feel the words in your bones. Rahn. Zeim. Gol. Quite literally, 'pass through stone.'"_

Marcus felt the intensity of the _thu'um_ run through him, and his dragon soul thrilled to learn a new Shout.

" _I give you my understanding of the rotmulag,"_ Felldir said solemnly. _"Now. Release your friends."_ He faded away as the knowledge flowed into the Dragonborn. Marcus turned to face the stone wall.

" _RAHN ZEIM GOL!"_ he thundered, and stepped back as a _whoosh_ of stale air billowed out. Weak cries of surprise, a few of dismay and one of utter delight met his ears.

"Papa!"

"Sofie?" Marcus choked. _"SOFIE!_ My gods, what are you doing here?"

Rushing through the opening his _thu'um_ had made, he crouched down and cradled his eldest daughter in his arms.

"I thought you were still in Whiterun!" he muttered. "Are you alright?"

"I am now, Papa," she whispered. "I knew you'd come!"

She was in a bad way, he could tell. Most of them were. Summoning up the strongest healing spell he knew, he channeled it into the Nord girl he had adopted so many years ago.

"Stay with me, baby," he pleaded.

"Papa…the others…" she murmured.

"I don't care!" he hissed, still concentrating on the healing. "You're my little girl. I can't lose you!"

"I'll be fine…the others…they need help…"

Guiltily, Marcus looked around. Most of the students here were younger than Sofie. In a far corner, near a mage-light, he could see Urag gro-Shub collapsed against a desk.

"Can any of you walk?" he asked. Only a handful responded weakly.

"We need help, Papa," Sofie whispered. "Where's Mama?"

"In the Midden, I think," he said, taking off his backpack. "Here, sweetheart," he said pushing it into her hands. "Here's all the potions I have, and there's some food and water in there. Spread it around. Do what you can. I need to head downstairs and see what's going on, and get some help in here."

"I'll go with you, Marcus," a voice whispered, and Drevis Neloran pulled himself out of the shadows. Leaning heavily against the wall, he pulled himself to an upright position.

"Drevis!" Marcus exclaimed, pleased. "We thought you were dead!"

"Almost," the Dunmer mage replied with a weak smile. "Daedra almost had me on my last trip. Managed to get the students here. Then Urag sealed us in. Ran out of food and water a couple days ago. I…I don't know if Urag is still—"

"He's still with us, but very weak," Sofie said quietly. "He's been unconscious since yesterday. Get help, Papa," she pleaded.

"I'll be back," he promised. "Drevis, you need to stay here. It's clear up above, but I don't know about below yet. You're too weak to fight. I'll get Enthir and the others."

He turned and left, then, before his heart made him stay to make sure his daughter was completely well. Sofie was right. They needed healers. If Tamsyn hadn't returned from the Midden with Azura yet, then he would have to see who Enthir had with him. And to do that, he'd have to clear out the Hall of the Elements.

There had been very few occasions when Marcus allowed his anger to consume him. He never liked losing control of himself. An enraged person, he had always believed, left themselves open to their enemies, who could find weaknesses to exploit. But few, either human or demon, could withstand the full unbridled wrath of an enraged Dragonborn. He swept down the stairs and into the Hall of the Elements like an avenging angel, killing everything before him. With his sword in one hand, spells in the other, and a _thu'um_ on his lips, the creatures waiting below soon realized they might stand a better chance of survival against the mages outside, rather than with this terrifying figure before them whose very words spelled their doom.

Minutes after Marcus entered the Hall, it was silent once more. The floor and stairway leading to the upper level study rooms, where some of the daedra had lurked, was now littered with their bodies. Marcus never hesitated, but barreled his way out into the courtyard to find Enthir and the others still waiting for J'Zargo and his team.

Swiftly, the Bosmer academic related to Marcus what had occurred in his absence.

"Are any of you good at Restoration?" the Dragonborn asked the group. One young Breton man raised his hand.

"I'm at Apprentice level," he volunteered. "My name's Rourk. Niall Rourk."

"Niall, I need you to get up to the Arcaneum and do whatever you can for the people there."

The young man nodded and sprinted for the Hall of the Elements.

"You found the students?" Enthir gasped, delighted. This was the best news he'd had all day!

"Yes," Marcus nodded. "Drevis Neloran is with them, and Urag…and Sofie," he added roughly, putting his personal feelings on hold. "I didn't even know she was here."

Enthir looked guilty. "I…I should have told you, Marcus," he murmured, turning aside so the students wouldn't hear. "She arrived the day before yesterday, right before all this began. When you got here, well…things were so hectic, and I didn't know if she was alright…"

"It's alright, Enthir," Marcus assured him, patting his shoulder. "I understand." Turning to the rest of the students, he motioned them closer.

"We need to—"

At that moment J'Zargo and his team emerged from the Hall of Attainment. Two students were supporting a third between them.

"Master Enthir!" J'Zargo called. "We need some help!"

The injured person was an Argonian female in Expert robes.

"Sleeps-in-Blossoms!" Onmund cried in consternation. "What happened?" He immediately began channeling healing magic into her.

"The Daedra invaded the Hall through the Lustratorium," the Alchemy master rasped. "I tried to hold them back, but there were too many, and I had to retreat upstairs. I locked myself in my room, but not before I had to fight off a handful of the creatures."

"Were there any others with you?" Marcus asked.

"No, Dragonborn," she replied. "I was alone in the tropical house when I heard noises that didn't belong down there. I came around to the temperate house and found imps and scamps destroying our planter beds. When I attempted to drive them off, they brought in reinforcements."

"J'Zargo," Enthir said, "were there any other faculty or students in the Hall?"

"Not that we could find, Master Enthir," the Khajiit answered. "But the Hall is clear now. We set up holy runes at the doors to the Midden and Lustratorium. If there are any still down there, they won't be able to come back up this way."

"That just leaves these two entrances into the Lustratorium," Marcus frowned. "And whatever else may still lurk in the Midden."

"The Arch-Mage and Master Azura may have taken care of that already," Onmund offered, as Blossoms waved off any further healing. She looked much better, now.

"But we can't count on that," Marcus said. "Our best strategy is to work our way down to meet the ladies. We won't need everyone for that."

"I'll take the students into town," Blossoms offered.

"Thank you," Enthir smiled, relieved. "Have everyone rest up, and keep them together until we return."

"I'm staying with you," Onmund said staunchly. His lifted his chin in a show of stubborn Nord pride.

J'Zargo shrugged. "J'Zargo wasn't doing anything important today," he purred, showing his teeth in the manner of a Khajiit smile. "It will be a good opportunity to show you all what J'Zargo has learned, these last few years."

"I've been almost everywhere with you," Onmund scowled. "You're not impressing anyone."

"Oh, but the only reason you say that is because you are jealous of J'Zargo's talent, no?" the Khajiit grinned.

"No," the young Nord replied succinctly.

"Can we save all that for later?" Enthir growled. "We need to get moving."

Marcus privately agreed. Without responding to the three mages, he headed into the temperate house of the Lustratorium. Many of the plants in this wing were of a kind suitable to the cold climates of Skyrim and High Rock, as well as the northern parts of Cyrodiil and Hammerfell. The tropical house, he knew, was where flora from the hotter climes of Valenwood, Elsweyr and Morrowind could be found. Several species of cacti from the Alik'r Desert and a few rare specimens from the Summerset Isles were there, as well.

They descended the stairs into the lower workshop areas, and here they found the destruction mentioned by Sleeps-in-Blossoms. Nearly all the mushroom planters were smashed and overturned. The gleamblossoms, faded now, had been torn out by their roots. The koi pond at the back of the workshop had been filled with filth, the fish that called it home were floating, dead, on the surface. The alchemy tables were overturned, their alembics smashed to bits underfoot. The skeevers in their cages were also dead. Marcus felt his heart ache. All the hard work Tamsyn had undertaken to make this extended greenhouse a viable and valuable asset to the College had been for naught. Many rare specimens would be difficult, if not impossible to replace.

As they made their way over to the tropical side it soon became apparent there were no enemies still lurking here. They climbed the staircase leading to the Hall of Attainment, to access the Midden.

Enthir took the lead, since Marcus wasn't as familiar with this part. They passed the smithy, which the Bosmer mage pointed out to Marcus, and worked their way around to a tunnel that led under a pair of huge, iron-clad wooden doors, which stood at least twelve feet high, and were set into the stone wall.

"Those are the doors to Old Winterhold, that I told you about," Enthir said. "Only the Arch-Mage ever has the key. Tamsyn has it now."

"Has anyone ever gone in?" Marcus asked as they entered the tunnel.

"Not that I'm aware of," Enthir replied.

"Eh...J'Zargo _did_ once try to get the door open," the Khajiit admitted. "But he could not pick the lock, and magic did not seem to help."

"I'm not surprised," Onmund said scornfully. "If you'd read the history of the College of Winterhold, you'd know the door is magically attuned to only open with the key in the Arch-Mage's possession. It was purposely done that way to keep the curious out, and keep innocent people from getting hurt."

"J'Zargo could not help himself," the feline shrugged. "We Khajiit have a saying about curiosity—"

"Hush!" Marcus barked softly, holding up a hand. Everyone stopped in their tracks and listened. From somewhere up ahead came the sounds of combat. At least, to any trained mage, it was the sound of Destruction and Conjuration magic.

"Come on!" the Dragonborn urged, drawing his sword. Enthir followed, with the two Expert mages on his heels, calling forth Alteration and Destruction magic into their hands.

Down a short flight of stairs just ahead, the Midden opened into the area known to all faculty and students as the Atronach Forge, and there Marcus and his followers saw Tamsyn and Azura battling at least a half dozen Dremora, some using magic. The look of relief on the women's faces told Marcus their timely arrival was most welcome. Onmund threw up a ward and blocked a firebolt from a Xivilai to his right as Marcus plowed into the middle of the chamber to engage the biggest, beefiest daedra he'd seen yet, bearing down on his wife.

"Fight's over here, shorty," he growled, slashing across the creature's lower back. With a howl, it ignored the Arch-Mage to whirl and face this new menace.

 _ **There you are, weakling!**_ it roared, and for a moment, Marcus thought there was something more sinister behind the comment, as if it had been waiting for him. He realized quickly, however, that it seemed to be a stock line most Dremora used upon seeing their foe. He blocked a blow from its greatsword, however, and shot for the face with an ice spike, but the daedra managed to turn aside at the last moment. It brought the greatsword around, enveloping Marcus' blade, and nearly twisting it out of his grip. Fumbling, the Dragonborn Shouted, _"ZUUN HAAL VIIK!"_ and grinned in satisfaction as the creature's weapon was ripped from its hands and sent skittering into a corner of the room.

Enthir summoned an ethereal blade and a ward of his own, closing in on the two Xivilai to the left, who had turned to defend themselves from the College mages.

"Frost or electric, boys," Enthir reminded J'Zargo and Onmund, who nodded. J'Zargo summoned a Frost Atronach behind the Dremora which Azura was defending herself from. The icy behemoth raised its upper appendage, and the daedra looked up in shock at the sudden drop in temperature as the glacial fist slammed it into the ground. Onmund cast a sheet of ice at the ground in front of a Xivilai attempting to flee down the side corridor. Unused to wintry conditions, it slipped and fell, slamming its head against the ground, knocking it completely unconscious. Onmund followed up with an Icy Spear to its chest, stilling it forever.

Enthir dodged, ducked and slashed at the Xivilai in front of him, keeping his ward up against the demon-mage attempting to flank him on his left. A crackle of electricity, and a resounding _BOOM_ , sent the magic-using demon slamming against the wall, where it crumpled. A distinct smell of charred flesh and ozone filled the air. Enthir saw Tamsyn hold up her forefinger, thumb extended, and gently blow on the tip of her finger. He didn't understand why she did that, but grinned his thanks and concentrated on the daedra in front of him.

The Dremora facing Marcus was weaponless, now, but not less dangerous. A scratch from its claws could lay open lesser armor, he'd read. He knew his dragonplate could take the punishment, but saw no reason to test that theory today. So he ducked and swerved and waited for his chance to get in an attack of his own. Attempting to wear it out was not an option, he knew as well. Being an otherworldly creature from the planes of Oblivion, they seemed to have limitless stamina and energy, and would never surrender, as long as there was an enemy present.

Vaguely, he was aware of Enthir at his back, battling his own opponent, with Tamsyn, Azura and the others having vanquished their foes. From the tail of his eye he saw Azura trying to work herself into a position where she could attack without risking hitting either Enthir or himself. Onmund and J'Zargo hovered uncertainly on the perimeter, near the Forge itself, while Tamsyn slipped around the wall to get close enough to her husband to help, should he need it.

 _Not today, sweetheart,_ he thought gratefully. She had pulled his bacon out of the fire more times than he cared to admit, but he had this. The Dremora overbalanced as it struck out at him, and Marcus ran his dragonbone blade into its chest clear up to the hilt. Lifting his foot, he pushed the creature off his sword as Enthir shield-bashed the Xivilai with his ward and sliced its head from its body.

Silence descended upon the room, except for the heavy, labored breathing of the Bosmer advisor and the Dragonborn.

"Did we get them all?" J'Zargo asked, blinking blandly.

"I think so," Marcus nodded.

"I hope so," Enthir said. "I'm beat!" His ward and weapon dissipated as Azura rushed into her husband's arms.

Marcus pulled Tamsyn into a quick, fierce embrace. "Are you hurt, my love?" he asked, worried.

"No," she assured him. "But that was a long, hard battle, and Azura and I were almost tapped out. What's going on upstairs?"

"We've secured the College," Enthir told her. "Drevis is still alive, and Sleeps-in-Blossoms. So is Urag, but he was unconscious when we left to come down here."

"Where are they?" Tamsyn asked urgently. "Marcus, my love…Sofie…she's here, too. Did you—"

"She's alive, sweetheart, but she needs healing," he soothed. "They all do. Let's get upstairs and take care of those who need it. We can get the students from town back up here and get them settled. Then we can talk about what happened."

Tamsyn nodded and they hurried back up to the Arcaneum. Enthir, Onmund and J'Zargo headed down into Winterhold to retrieve the rest of the students and faculty left behind.

It was late in the evening before everyone was resettled, and Tamsyn and Marcus could hear a complete report from Enthir.

"We don't know much more than I've already told you," he said. "All I know for certain is that they came out of nowhere, suddenly. One moment everything seemed normal, the next moment there were daedra everywhere. They erupted out of the Lustratorium and the Midden, and spilled over the walls of the College into the Courtyard. Some of them climbed up the outside to come in from the upper levels."

"I heard the commotion," Urag gro-Shub growled, from his chair in Tamsyn's quarters where he had been taken after the liberation of the Arcaneum. "One of the scholars rushed in and said there were daedra everywhere. I warded off the stairway to the roof with runes, and was going to do the same to the stairway down to the Hall, but daedra came out of the stairs to this chamber, Arch-Mage, and I knew we were overrun."

"Urag fought them off," Sofie continued softly, snuggled under Marcus' arm. "He kept up the strongest ward I've ever seen, giving students caught on the stairs a chance to get into the Arcaneum. He would have sealed us in then and there, except Master Drevis called out to him to wait."

"I had another handful of students with me," Drevis explained. "I had extended my invisibility spell to include them. It's extremely difficult to do, and quite costly in terms of how much magicka is needed to perform such a master-level spell, but of course, in such a case of emergency I felt it necessary—"

"Yeah, yeah," Urag snorted, but it turned into a cough. When he regained control, he muttered, "We're all very grateful for your sacrifice, Drevis. Let's not glorify it, okay? We lost a lost of good people these past couple of days. I'm going to miss Faralda, and Tolfdir, even if he _was_ an absent-minded old wizard."

"And Brelyna," Onmund murmured, looking shattered. "I can't believe she's gone! One moment, full of life, summoning a Storm Atronach to cover our retreat, and the next…" He fell silent, overcome, and Tamsyn touched his hand in sympathy.

"We also lost Phinis and Sergius," J'Zargo commiserated. "That leaves an opening for Conjuration Master and Enchanting Master, does it not?"

"This is hardly the time to be thinking about that!" Onmund snapped.

"No, no, of course not," the Khajiit mage agreed amicably. "But we should not leave such important positions vacant for long. J'Zargo is only saying what must be said."

"We'll deal with that later," Tamsyn said wearily. "I'm more concerned with how Oblivion gates were conjured on College grounds in the first place." She turned to Enthir and gave him a steady look. "Was anyone working on any…unauthorized projects?" She hated to ask the question, but needed to know the truth, and if anyone would know, it would be Enthir.

"As the Nine are my witness, Tamsyn," Enthir promised, "no such experiments were going on, to my knowledge."

"I believe you," she smiled. "But I had to ask."

"What about that other 'inside' information you were given?" Azura asked, diplomatically. All of Skyrim believed Tamsyn to have uncanny powers of divination; indeed, even though they had passed beyond her knowledge of the game she had played so many hours of in another time and another life, she had worked diligently with the Auger of Dunlaine, now absent, to enhance her ability to ascertain possible future trends. Couched in the words deliberately chosen by her friend, Tamsyn knew the information Julia had given them would be untraceable to her daughter, and keep her safe.

"It's something we'll need to look into," was all she said now. "I think we should all get some sleep. Enthir, make sure the holy wards are refreshed at all points of entry into the College. We've destroyed the two Gates, but I want to make sure nothing was overlooked in our purge."

"I'll help you with that, my love," Azura said, ushering the others out. Urag rose painfully from his chair.

"Urag, no," Tamsyn said. "You stay here. I'll bring a blanket and a prop for your feet. Sleep here tonight."

"I'm no invalid—" he began, but Tamsyn cut him off.

"No," she smiled, "you're not. But you're also in no condition to be alone. I'll be monitoring you through the night to make sure you don't have a relapse." There was a hint of steel in her voice as she added, "I insist."

"Well…if you put it that way, Arch-Mage," he grumbled, but even Marcus caught the flicker of relief in the old orc's purple eyes. Tamsyn found a cushion and set it on a basket, which Marcus then placed under the Orsimer's feet. Sofie placed a crochet blanket over him, and he sighed, smiling.

"I'll go back to my dorm room now, Papa, Mama," Sofie said. "I'm glad you were able to come so quickly." She hugged Tamsyn and then Marcus, and shyly slipped something into his hand. "I'm sorry I missed your birthday. I wanted to be there. I made you this." She kissed his cheek and waved as she left the Arch-Mage's quarters to return to her room in the Hall of Countenance.

Marcus opened the bit of silk wrapping the present and held up a penannular designed as a curled-up dragon, breathing fire. The gout of fire was the pin that would hold a cloak in place. It radiated Restoration magic.

"That clever girl!" Tamsyn smiled broadly, after passing her hand over it. "It's a health regeneration enchantment. Quite strong, too!"

"I think she might be ready for her next levels," Urag grunted. "She kept me alive. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to try to get some rest. Good night." He closed his eyes and gave another heavy sigh.

Marcus followed Tamsyn around to her personal space in the chamber, behind a large curved wall.

"Wait here while I set wards upstairs," she murmured.

Upstairs, Marcus knew, was the inner sanctum of the Arch-Mage. He had been there on several occasions; most recently, to clear it of any daedra lurking about. In a few moments, his wife returned and they prepared for bed.

"What about the portal to the get-away?" Marcus asked, nodding towards a blank wall, behind which was another teleportation globe to the Arch-Mage's mountain-top retreat. Tamsyn had been Arch-Mage for two years before she had discovered it.

"They'd have to get through the stone wall to get to us," she whispered. "And I'm not about to open it tonight."

Marcus nodded and pulled her closer. "So, any ideas about what this sload thing is, and more importantly, _where_ it is?"

"I know _what_ a sload is," she replied. "It's one of the races of beastfolk, like the Argonians and the Khajiit, or the Imga of Valenwood."

"Imga?"

"Think giant apelike creature and you're not far off," Tamsyn suggested. "The sload are huge, bipedal creatures with sagging jowls, squinting eyes and short, thick tails. I'm sure you remember Jabba the Hutt?"

Marcus' snort of amusement was all the answer she needed. "Sloads are like that, but walk on two legs."

"And they're daedra?" her husband asked.

"No," Tamsyn answered. "But they will serve daedra if they think they can gain something from it."

"Where do you think this one is?" Marcus wondered. "The one Julia told us was sent by this Zenosha?"

Tamsyn shrugged helplessly. "I honestly have no idea, Marcus," she worried. "Azura and I combed the Midden, and all we found were daedra, and another Oblivion gate, which we disabled. It could be anywhere!"

"What about under the Midden?" Marcus suggested. "It could be hiding in the ruins of Old Winterhold."

"What do you know about Old Winterhold?" his wife hissed sharply, mindful of Urag sleeping not far away.

"Just what Enthir said," Marcus shrugged. "The ruins of the old town from before the cataclysm are sealed behind that huge wood and iron door, and only you have the key. What better place to gate in something you want to take down the College?"

Tamsyn brooded. "I don't want to go down there, Marcus," she admitted. "Savos' notes about the place are brief and vague. He said in his journal that the cause of the collapse was not the fault of the College, but that we would be held accountable for the aftermath."

"How?"

"I don't know!" Tamsyn replied, shaking her head. "That's all he wrote about it. I never wanted to open another can of worms when we had so much on our plate as it was."

"Well, I think we're going to need to open that can," Marcus said firmly. "If it means getting to the root of what's happened here, and especially if the Thalmor gated that slug under the College to take you down from within, we're going to have to face whatever is lurking below."

He hugged her tight. "Don't worry," he assured her. "I'll be right there with you."

Tamsyn pressed her body closer to his, but it didn't stop her shivering.

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Next up, we discover what has been hidden, seething, under the College of Winterhold, and learn what happened to the old town before the Great Collapse.]_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 3**

 _[Author's Note: I went back to Skyrim recently – not…literally (I wish!) – to replay the part of the "Immersive College at Winterhold" mod where you explore under the Midden to find out what's down there. Well…*ahem*…since I've left off playing the Legendary Edition, and am now playing the Special Edition, the modder changed a few things. I agree with most of what was cut out in the update. But it meant I had to mesh what I remembered (and already stated here) with a new play-through. Please bear that in mind as you read through this chapter, and you realize (if you're familiar at all with the mod) that what I'm writing isn't exactly what's in the game. On the other hand, much of what I've written so far was never in the game!]_

 _[Special note to Guest Luke: no, I'm not giving up on the story. I do intend to see it through to the end, as time, inspiration and health permit. I am 62 years old, after all, and while that may not seem that old to some of you, I can only say this: if I had known I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself! *grin*]_

* * *

Iona paused briefly outside the door to the Grand Master's quarters. She had seen Delphine enter with two other young Blades, not two minutes earlier, but could hear nothing from within. That could only mean the door was Muffled. Iona didn't practice magic, but she knew enough to know when it was being used. The question that bothered her was _why?_ It was no secret that the Grand Master was having an affair with the King in Rags, Madanach. _Reach King, Iona,_ she reminded herself sharply. _Better get used to calling him that. He might just get his throne after all._ With that in mind, she doubted seriously that Delphine was "entertaining" two younger Blades at the same time. _It's not impossible,_ she told herself, _just unlikely._

So, why was the door Muffled? What was going on in there that Delphine felt it necessary to hide what she was doing? Iona didn't like mysteries, especially where the Blades were concerned. Their organization was still finding its feet. Keeping secrets was a bad way to build trust. She wished Benor was still here. The honest, kind Nord had a way of figuring out simple solutions to difficult problems. But Benor was now Grand Master of Dragonpeak Eyrie, the former Skuldafn Temple, where Blades and dragons were training to become a cohesive "air force" as the Dragonborn had called it. It would take too long to contact him and get an answer about how to address this situation. No. She'd have to handle this herself.

She shifted restlessly. She didn't want to barge into Delphine's quarters, but the reports she had regarding Thalmor movements through the Dragontail Mountains was disturbing. Nelkir, Jarl Balgruuf's son, had returned with information that the Dominion was bringing in more troops to the area between Skyrim, Hammerfell and Cyrodiil, where the Dragontail Mountains split, becoming the Jeralls along the southern border of Skyrim and the Colovian Highlands along the western edge of Cyrodiil.

"How many troops?" she'd asked the young, red-haired Nord. He was the illegitimate son of Balgruuf, as many people knew – or suspected – but he had been trained by Brynjolf himself, and had taken to espionage like a duck to water.

"Over a thousand, by my estimate," Nelkir replied. "There's at least one Justiciar for every twenty soldiers."

Iona whistled. "That's a lot of mage-power," she brooded. "They must be planning a serious assault."

"That's what I thought," Nelkir nodded. "I'm off to let Matriarch Maiara know. She'll get word to Madanach. I thought I'd better come here first."

Iona patted his shoulder. "You did the right thing," she approved. "Thank you. I'll let the Grand Master know."

And that had been her intention, except now it seemed that Delphine was in conference. Iona bristled only slightly at not being included. As second in command at Sky Haven Temple, she would have thought Delphine would automatically include her in any strategic planning session. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that Delphine didn't trust anyone – not even old Esbern, the Temple's archivist. Oh, she still sought him out for advice – especially with regard to finding dragons for Marcus to speak to, to attempt to bring them around to the Alliance's way of thinking – but it seemed there weren't as many dragons as there used to be. At least, Iona had not been sent out to locate any.

Iona felt her stomach lurch. _No, she wouldn't…_

She made a move as if to open the door, but let her hand drop. It would be better to have some confirmation before making accusations. Turning around, she headed down to the main hall, where Esbern spent most of his time with the Blades initiates, teaching them the history of the organization, and as much as he knew of dragon lore.

As she suspected, the old Nord was speaking to a group of young and not-so-young newcomers to Sky Haven Temple. Several were Reachfolk, who wanted a better opportunity to fight for their lands than they might have had in their encampments.

"And so," Esbern intoned, "you can see from the carvings here on Alduin's Wall that the dragons all came from Akavir, which literally means 'dragon land' in the ancient tongue. Blessed with remarkable intelligence, they are nonetheless susceptible to feelings of pride and melancholy. They are distrustful creatures, even of each other. Despite this, they are also somewhat social, and can be driven mad by captivity and isolation. As the immortal children of Akatosh, they are specially attuned to the flow of time, and they feel an innate urge to dominate others that is difficult to overcome. In the mind of a dragon, being powerful and being right are the same, thus they make no distinction between speaking and fighting; battles between them are actually deadly verbal debates—"

He broke off, noticing Iona standing to one side, shifting impatiently.

"Did you need something, Captain?" he asked kindly, as all eyes turned to her.

"A moment of your time, if you could, please," she replied. "I'm sorry to interrupt—"

"No, no, it's quite alright," Esbern chuckled. "I think I've glazed enough eyes for one afternoon." He turned to his students. "Why don't you all head out to the practice grounds now?" he suggested. "Lieutenant Ingmar will be pleased to spend a bit more time with all of you, I'm sure."

Iona and Esbern waited until the noisy, enthusiastic crowd of initiates vacated the hall to head outside to the practice grounds.

"Now, Captain, what can I do for you?" Esbern smiled.

Iona hesitated. The old man was Delphine's oldest friend – if the Breton woman _had_ any friends – and he was staunchly loyal to the code of the Blades. It had taken much persuasion on the part of the Dragonborn to get them both to agree to his plan to turn the Blades from hunting dragons to hunting Thalmor.

"I was wondering if you had found any dragons recently?" she began. That was a fairly reasonable place to begin. "I haven't gone out on any expeditions lately, and I'm worried that Marcus won't have enough dragons for all the recruits at Dragonpeak Eyrie."

A confused expression crossed the old man's wrinkled face. "But I just gave that information to Delphine last week," he said. "She decided to handle it personally, and took two of the younger Blades with her. She said they needed the experience."

"Oh." Iona turned this over in her mind. "And did she say whether they were able to get the dragon to join the Alliance?"

"No," Esbern admitting, shaking his head sadly. "It refused, and they were forced to kill it."

"I see," Iona nodded thoughtfully. "Esbern, how many times in the past few months or so have you located dragons?"

"Let me think, now," Esbern murmured. "Perhaps a dozen or so?"

With almost superhuman effort, Iona kept her mouth from dropping open. A _dozen?_ That many dragons would have brought Dragonpeak Eyrie up to full strength!

"How many of these dragons did Tolasiik help you find?" she asked. She was referring to the ancient dragon Marcus had named at Dragonpeak, whom he convinced to help them in exchange for its life.

"You're asking a lot of questions, Captain Iona," Esbern said shrewdly. "Is there something on your mind?"

"Just tell me, Esbern," she insisted. "Did Tolasiik help you find any of these 'dozen or so' dragons in the last few months?"

"He found them all," Esbern replied, confused. "He even spoke to them beforehand."

Iona went cold inside. "And you reported them to Delphine, who didn't inform me."

Esbern shrugged. "Well, she said you were busy, and she'd handle it herself. Is there a problem?"

 _Oh yes,_ she told herself. _A big problem._ She kept her face neutral, however, as she answered, "No. I just wondered, that's all. Thank you." She made to leave, but instead turned back. "Out of curiosity, Esbern, did you recently let Delphine know of any dragons in the area?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," the old man beamed. "There's one roosting in the mountains near Dushnik Yal, the Orc settlement."

"Thank you," Iona nodded, and returned to her quarters to mull over what she'd learned.

Putting aside the fact that Delphine seldom liked to leave Sky Haven Temple for fear of being recognized by a Thalmor patrol, it was perfectly within reason for her to decide to take on a dragon by herself, or with a couple recruits for back-up. The excuse of "giving them experience" would have been fine, if the "experience" was in negotiating terms of alliance. But Iona's gut told her that wasn't what was happening. Still, she was practical; she had no real proof that Delphine was violating Marcus' edict about leaving the dragons alone. She would need to see it for herself, and that meant getting to Dushnik Yal ahead of Delphine and her party, and locating exactly where the dragon was without engaging it herself.

She blew out a sigh of frustration. _It was never this complicated when I was a mere Housecarl,_ she thought wryly.

* * *

"I don't understand why you have to go yourself," Delphine frowned. "I need you here, to keep an eye on the recruits."

"Esbern and Ingmar will be here," Iona said firmly. "I just need to make sure the status reports get to Jarl Balgruuf in a timely manner. He says he never received last quarter's paperwork."

"Hmm," Delphine mused. "It's possible our courier was waylaid."

"That's a bit alarming!" Iona worried. "What if the Dominion should get their hands on a report like that? We'd be compromised!" In spite of her elevated tone, Iona was quite certain said reports had never been sent.

"I'm sure it was nothing like that," Delphine replied, not meeting the Nord woman's eyes. "Wild beasts could have killed him, and the reports lost to the elements."

Her callous disregard for the safety of the alleged courier, and the security of sensitive documents was not lost on Iona, but she pretended to be reassured.

"I'm sure you must be right, Grand Master," she said now. "However, Jarl Balgruuf is not known to be a patient man, and he specifically requested the reports be hand-delivered to him."

Delphine sighed in frustration. "This couldn't come at a worse time," she complained. "I need to escort Baelfik and Nystra up to Bthardamz. They've never been there and don't know the way."

"I could take them, and then go to Whiterun," Iona offered casually, while watching Delphine carefully.

"Uh, no, that won't be necessary," Delphine insisted. "You've already said Balgruuf isn't a patient man. Best not keep him waiting. Just get back here as soon as you can."

"I will, Grand Master, and thank you." Iona saluted and spun on her heel to exit Delphine's quarters.

 _She's lying!_ she simmered to herself. _I know she is! Even if Baelfik didn't know how to get to Bthardamz, Nystra was born and raised in Druadach Redoubt. Bthardamz is practically in her back yard! Besides, there's a portal to Bthardamz in Delphine's private quarters so Madanach can come to visit her. Even if most of the Blades don't know about it, Esbern and I do. How could Delphine make a mistake like that unless she was lying?_

She made a great show of packing light and leaving Sky Haven Temple, heading first south out of the Karthspire and across the Karth River, then eastward along the road for a few miles before slipping across country and doubling back, just before reaching the second bridge across the Karth which led to Old Hroldan.

 _I hope I can find that dragon before Delphine does!_ she thought. Urgency lent wings to her feet and she sped through the back trails, avoiding the wildlife where she could. The gods must have smiled upon her, because she could see one flying in the distance, near the area of an old Dwemer ruin known as Arkngthamz, which no one had been in for centuries, believing it – rightly so – to be a Falmer-infested hive.

 _We should have cleared that place out long ago,_ Iona thought, as she settled herself at the top of Reachwind Eyrie, with a clear view of the road. Hopefully, Delphine and her crew would choose to come through this way. She had no real way of knowing, except that Dushnik Yal was almost directly south of her, and she could see the ruins of Arkngthamz just beyond that. _That old Dwemer ruin is practically on the border between Hammerfell and Skyrim. It would have made a perfect place to watch out for Thalmor patrols._

But recent temblors in the area, within the last decade or so, made it too risky to set up a base of operations there. _The Falmer would have been bad enough,_ she thought. _Throwing earthquakes on top of that?_ She shuddered, knowing there was no amount of money in the world that would entice her to go exploring in Arkngthamz.

It was nearly night, now, and Iona knew that if Delphine was smart – and usually she was – she and her party would bed down for the night. No one in their right mind would confront a dragon at night.

 _But she's not in her right mind,_ Iona frowned to herself. _She's become more and more paranoid of late, seeing Thalmor spies everywhere, and allowing her hatred of the dragons to spill over into her comments to the recruits._ Iona had lost count of the number of times she had had to impress upon the younger Blades that their goal was to recruit the dragons to their cause, not kill them outright. And every time she'd done so, she could see Delphine's lips compress into that thin line of disapproval.

 _Has she finally crossed the line?_ Iona wondered. Had Delphine decided to take the matter of the dragons into her own hands, against the direct orders of the Dragonborn? Iona didn't want to be there should Marcus find out, but knew in her heart her former Thane deserved to know what might be going on behind his back.

Flickering lights on the road below caught her attention, and Iona peered into the darkness to see three figures with torches moving steadily southward. Marcus had fondly, jokingly, called her "Hawkeye," for her keen vision. She excelled at archery, and it was one of the things she taught the recruits at Sky Haven Temple. It served her well, here. Though she was no Khajiit, she could see reasonably well in the dark. The figures were wearing standard-issue steel armor, but nothing could hide the Akaviri-style swords and bows. Delphine and her team weren't headed anywhere near Bthardamz.

Compressing her lips in disapproval, Iona slipped down the stairs of the ancient Dwemer outpost tower and cracked the door open just enough to peer through. She waited until the three figures were well beyond her position before easing through and closing the door behind her as quietly as she could. Sounds tended to carry at night, she knew, and Delphine's senses would be on high alert – especially if she knew she was doing something counter to direct orders. Just past Dushnik Yal, the three Blades put out their torches, but Iona didn't need them to see the figures begin to crouch and work their way down the road towards Arkngthamz.

Earlier in the evening, Iona had seen the dragon settle itself on the only visible dome of the ancient dwarven city to rest for the night. The occasional rumbling of the ground didn't seem to disturb it at all, though it made Iona nervous, and she could see the three figures ahead of her pause a moment until the shifting stopped.

When they were within a quarter mile of the ruins, the three Blades stopped and split up; the two younger Blades climbing into the hills on either side of Arkngthamz. Delphine continued to move forward, still crouching.

Putting aside the fact that this was, after all, a dragon, and one should always approach one cautiously, Iona knew in her heart there would be no conversations here, no negotiations. If that had been Delphine's intent, she would have approached during the daytime. Instead, it played out exactly as Iona suspected it would.

The two young Blades, Baelfik and Nystra, launched a fusillade of arrows at the dragon, startling it, while Delphine targeted it with shock spells until its first attack. It was a coldrake, a frost dragon, and knowing this, Delphine switched to fire spells to take it out quicker. The dragon appeared to be a lesser dragon, one that might easily have been swayed to the Dragonborn's cause had it been given a chance. Instead, it fell heavily from the air within a few short minutes of the first surprise attack, dying on the stones in front of the great dwarven ruin.

There was no ignition, no sudden flaring, no tendrils of energy reaching out to embrace a Dragonborn who wasn't there. Iona felt something wet on her cheeks and angrily brushed it away. This wasn't right! This wasn't noble or brave. It was cowardice, pure and simple, and all because of one woman's paranoia and sense of vengeance.

Delphine and the others congratulated each other on a well-executed plan, but Iona felt sick. She had the presence of mind to slip into the shadows before they left the scene, and held her position in silence for an hour after they left before turning her steps towards Whiterun, and her originally proposed mission. She knew she had to get word to Marcus as soon as possible, and had a feeling Jarl Balgruuf could help her with that.

* * *

"You're absolutely certain, Iona?" Marcus demanded, scowling.

"I saw them with my own eyes, my Thane," her voice came faintly over the ear bud. Iona didn't have one of her own, so she was speaking through Balgruuf's. A part of his mind registered that she still thought of him as her Thane, though she had taken a vow to leave her old life behind when she joined the Blades. "It was a lesser one, too. It might have joined us. And Esbern tells me there have been at least a dozen more that I was never informed about."

Simmering, Marcus made a great effort to get control of his temper. "Alright, thanks, Iona. I'll be there just as soon as I can. Wait for me at Dragonsreach and we'll head back to Sky Haven Temple together. Balgruuf, thanks for letting her contact me."

"Glad to help in any way I can, Dragonborn," the Jarl replied. "What will you do about the intelligence regarding the Dominion movements?"

"I'll check that out while I'm down in that area," Marcus promised. "See you both soon." He signed off and turned to Tamsyn, who stood nearby with Enthir and Azura.

"I'm sorry, Tamsyn," he apologized. "I know I said I'd go into the old ruins with you—"

"It can't be helped, my love," Tamsyn assured him. "You need to look into this; it's far more important."

"That's debatable," Enthir muttered. "It looks like we're being double-teamed."

"What kind of expression is that?" Azura asked, arching an eyebrow.

Enthir shrugged. "I picked it up from Marcus," he grinned sheepishly.

"You're a bad influence on our friends, dearest," Tamsyn chuckled briefly. "But Enthir is right. Whatever the Dominion is doing, they're stepping up their efforts. You need to find out what Delphine is up to, and check out that Aldmeri encampment, and I'll have to go into the ruins alone."

"Not alone," Azura insisted. "I'm going with you."

"But dearest—" Enthir began.

"There's no debate here, husband mine," Azura said firmly. "Tamsyn can't go in there by herself, and you're needed here."

Tamsyn patted her friend's arm gratefully. "Thank you," she said simply.

"If you're sure," Marcus faltered. He hated having to make choices like this, but as Tamsyn had pointed out, it simply couldn't be helped. Whatever agenda Delphine was running, it was counter to his direct purpose, and he couldn't afford to let it go on longer than it already had. He ran a hand through his dark brown hair and blew out a breath of frustration. This couldn't have come at a worse time!

"Go, my love," Tamsyn insisted, kissing his cheek. "I'll be here when you get back."

Not trusting himself to speak further, Marcus gave a curt nod and headed for the top of the Hall of the Elements, where he could call Odahviing. A few minutes later, they heard his voice boom out over the land, and several minutes after that came a roaring response.

"What do you think we'll need down in the ruins?" Azura asked, all efficiency as she began filling her backpack from Tamsyn's stores in the Arch-mage's quarters.

"A lot of luck," the Breton mage quipped.

"Better stop at your shrine to Julianos, then," Enthir suggested, missing the looks and smirks that passed between the two women. "I'll head downstairs and see how the clean-up progresses." As soon as he was gone, the two women burst into giggles.

"I'm not sure he'd ever understand," Azura chuckled, her eyes dancing.

"And I'm not sure that luck is in Daddy's bailiwick, but I will send my thoughts his way," Tamsyn replied. "Pack those magicka regen potions," she advised. "We'll need them."

"Do you know what we'll be facing down there?" Azura asked, all amusement aside.

"No," Tamsyn answered, shaking her head. "This was never in my game. In fact, the past couple of years, since we came back from Apocrypha, has been off the books. If the developers added any content to the original game, I died before I could play it."

"It sounds so strange when you talk about all of this being a game," Azura grimaced. "Like we're all just pieces on a board, being pushed around by some cosmic force greater than ourselves."

"That may be truer than you realize," was all Tamsyn said, and Azura repressed a shudder.

Once they were satisfied their packs were ready, the two women headed downstairs to take their leave from Enthir.

"If something should happen to me—" Tamsyn began, but Enthir cut her off.

"Don't borrow trouble!" he exclaimed. "Nothing's going to happen!"

"I hope not," Tamsyn smiled warmly at his genuine concern. "But if it does, and Azura survives, she will be Arch-mage, and you'll be her Master Wizard."

"Me?" Azura squeaked. "Arch-mage? Why not Enthir?"

"I don't want it," Enthir replied. "Tamsyn knows that. And you'd be a great Arch-mage, my dear. You've got the steady temperament for it."

"Well, I don't want it, either, if it means we lose Tamsyn," the Bosmer mage said staunchly, linking her arm through Tamsyn's. "So, it will be up to me to make sure you pull through."

"I'm so blessed to have you both as friends," Tamsyn smiled warmly. "Now, let's get down to the Midden and get this over with. We can't let that sload rest."

In a short while they both stood before the huge, iron-bound wooden doors leading to the old ruins under the College. Tamsyn produced the key she'd found in a lockbox with a note in Savos Aren's hand, after she'd become Arch-mage.

" _This key is to be kept safe from all prying eyes,"_ he wrote. _"The ruins under Winterhold are dangerous, and not to be explored by any student at the College. Dark things lurk there; things left over from the Great Collapse, for which we, the mages of Winterhold, will be blamed. We are not at fault, but we will nevertheless be blamed for the evil that resides therein."_

 _And now I'm unlocking that door,_ Tamsyn thought with a shudder. Together, she and Azura pulled one of the doors open, just enough to let themselves in, then pushed it closed once more. Tamsyn re-locked it on this side, to prevent anyone from following them. Having done so, she turned for her first look at the ruins of the old city of Winterhold. They were standing in what appeared to be a grand courtyard which had collapsed in on itself. Charred beams and broken stone lay piled everywhere. Azura was silent as they picked their way through the rubble, touching one griffon statue gently, that somehow remained intact.

"There used to be two of these, flanking the entrance to the College," she murmured.

"I'd forgotten you lived here before the Collapse," Tamsyn said quietly. The atmosphere almost demanded they speak in hushed tones. Too much trauma and death had happened here. "Do you think you could lead the way? I don't know where we're going."

"I really don't know, either," Azura confessed. "It looks very different from when I was here. I know there was a road leading down to the town, but that would have been over there, and there's too much debris in the way."

"The road isn't there, anyway," Tamsyn pointed out. "If it had survived, we'd be able to see it from outside."

"That's true," Azura agreed. "I don't know how else to—" She broke off. "Wait, what's that over there?"

The two women navigated their way around a stone wall that seemed to be holding up most of the debris overhead. Just beyond the wall was a well, leading straight down.

"This appears to be the only way further in," Tamsyn said. "How much do you weigh?"

Azura caught on immediately. "About one-twenty, give or take a pound or two."

"I'm jealous," grinned Tamsyn.

"We Bosmer are light-boned," Azura shrugged, "so we can move quickly through the tree-tops."

"Alright, give me your hands," Tamsyn said. "I'll see if I can coast us down."

It was actually more of a slow fall than a coast, but at least it wasn't a plummet. Several loose stones dislodged as they bumped against them, crashing down into the water below. As they emerged into the subterranean cavern, Tamsyn guided them towards the only available shore, with Azura's toes just skimming the surface of the water. It attracted the attention of several large, slug-like creatures who thrashed about in the water hungrily, and both women recoiled quickly from the shoreline.

A stream flowed down from somewhere above, out of a sunken building. Azura crouched immediately, and Tamsyn followed without question, not seeing the skeleton that waited ahead. Azura shot it with a lightning bolt, and it crumpled into individual bones. There was no way through the collapsed building, but a small ice tunnel led off to their left. It wound up and around, in sharp right-hand turns, and eventually came out into an area of worked stone.

Pillars to their right held the ice wall at bay, while a passage to the left continued past pedestals where mage lights still burned. They entered the passage, but it wasn't far before the ice walls closed in around them once more.

"What was that?" Azura whispered harshly. Something had moved beyond the ice wall, just beyond her vision.

"Where?" Tamsyn murmured back. Both women brought spells into their hands. The light from them dimly illuminated the walls on either side.

"We're under the Sea of Ghosts!" Tamsyn said in a hushed tone, staring around in awe. Seaweed waved lazily in the currents, and salmon darted in and out of view.

"Best extinguish the fire spells, then," Azura advised, lowering her own hands, and Tamsyn followed suit. "We don't need to spring a leak here!"

"Agreed," her companion nodded. They had to crawl under a broken minaret from one of the towers, which leaned across their path, the ice packed hard around it. Not far beyond this, the ice cavern opened up, and they could see, for the first time, what had once been the harbor of Winterhold. The shattered remains of several ships were frozen in place as well as time, victims of the tragedy that had befallen the once-great city of northern Skyrim. Tamsyn realized they were on top of the outer wall of the city, where the ships had been smashed during the storms that ravaged the Sea of Ghosts during the Collapse. A few trebuchets, positioned for the defense of the city in the event of a naval attack, stood unmanned and impotent along the walls. Not far away, another guard tower leaned drunkenly against the side of the cliff face that had given way during the Collapse. The two women could not see very much between the crenellations of the wall, but it was apparent the harbor area lay in ruins.

They picked their way as best they could through the rubble and debris, seeking a way down to where Azura remembered the city gates being located. A thick layer of ice lay over everything, and in spite of their warm clothing, they shivered. This was a tomb, a place of the dead past, and they knew they intruded here.

Azura found a stairway down and they followed it out into the harbor area, where another broken ship lay in their way. Clambering over tumbled stones, a sudden rumble shook the ground, and Tamsyn threw herself against Azura as blocks of ice the size of a dragon crashed down where they had both stood seconds before. The Arch-Mage threw up a ward to keep most of the debris off them. They waited, hearts pounding, until the shaking subsided, the ice crystals abated, and their breathing steadied.

"That was a bit too close!" Azura gasped. "Thank you, my friend!"

"At least it gave us a few more boulders to climb on, to reach the side of that wrecked ship," Tamsyn quipped, but even her voice was strained.

As they reached the top railing, they saw immediately that the ship had literally been sliced in two by the cataclysm. One half lay half twisted to their right, with the hull high over their heads. Empty cages, some with doors fallen open, remained inside. To their left was the other half, also containing cages empty of whatever cargo they had once held.

"This wasn't a slave ship, was it?" Tamsyn whispered in horror.

"Not to my knowledge," Azura assured her. "Winterhold's Jarl at the time, Valdimar, was staunchly against slavery in any form. I remember seeing a lot of animals from all over Tamriel come through the port, though. These cages might have held some of them."

"That's a relief, then!" Tamsyn breathed. "I mean, I feel bad for those poor creatures, not even understanding what was going on, and being trapped in cages while the ship was being tossed about, but still…"

"I know what you mean," Azura nodded as they made their way carefully down the icy slope created by the remains of the dock. "I don't want to think about what the sailors were going through, either."

Once they were clear of the dock area, Azura peered around and located the bastion wall of the city a short distance away.

"Over there," she murmured, gesturing. "The gate was over that way."

"Wait a minute," Tamsyn whispered, urgently, crouching. "What's that?"

Something green, which glowed faintly, caught her eye. A cross between something reptilian and something insectoid, Tamsyn could safely say to herself that she'd never seen anything like it before.

"A nix hound!" Azura exclaimed, keeping her voice low. "The ancestors for it must have come to Winterhold on board those ships back there. They come from Morrowind. The Dunmer would sometimes train them for battle."

"I think I'd be suitable horrified to see something like that approach me in battle," Tamsyn said drily. "Are they generally non-hostile?"

"Not…so much," Azura admitted. "We'd best steer clear of this one."

"But it's between us and the gate," Tamsyn pointed out. "And as my husband is fond of saying, I'd rather not have an enemy behind me."

"We'll have to kill it, then," Azura nodded, sadly. "It seems a shame. They're rare now."

"About to be on the endangered species list, then," Tamsyn said firmly. "We need to get to that sload, and we can't be squeamish about killing anything that gets in our way."

"I suppose you're right," Azura sighed. "Let's go."

Between two master wizards, the nix hound didn't really stand a chance, though Azura gave its chitinous head a pat in sympathy as they hurried past it.

There seemed to be only one path to weave their way through the ruins, and since enough of the city remained for Azura to have a vague idea which way to go, Tamsyn let her take the lead. A wide, stone arch-way separated the harbor from the lower section of town. Azura explained to Tamsyn what the city had looked like, the last time she saw it before leaving for Solstheim.

"It wasn't in a cavern like this," she said quietly. "It was open to the sky, but the cliffs rose up behind the town, and a road switch-backed to the upper part where the College and the Jarl's palace were. Businesses and homes were perched on the side of the cliff all the way up and down. There was also a Temple to the Nine, and a town hall. Now, the College is the only thing remaining up there, aside from a dozen or fewer intact buildings."

Another rumble shook the cavern, and the two women froze against the arch-way as several large boulders crashed to the ground.

Tamsyn gulped. "You know, at some point this whole cavern might just cave in, burying everything."

"Not while we're still in here, I hope!" Azura shuddered. "Come on, I think we go this way."

Two nix hounds surprised them as they rounded a pile of rubble. One of them leaped at Tamsyn and bore her to the ground before she could put up her ward. The other advanced on Azura, who shot at it with an ice spike. The creature dodged and continued to advance, hissing menacingly. Another ice spike hit the nix hound in the head, and it went down. Azura drew Grave and ran to Tamsyn, who was too distracted keeping the nix hound's pincer-like mandible away from her head to summon enough magicka for a spell to kill it. The Bosmer mage knocked the beast off the Arch-Mage with the flat of the stahlrim blade, and Tamsyn fired a lightning bolt at it from her prone position. The two women watched as it skittered across the ground, dead.

"I hope there aren't any more of those," Tamsyn grumbled, as Azura helped her up. "Nasty little buggers!"

"Some people in Morrowind keep them as pets," Azura shrugged.

"I can't imagine why," Tamsyn said sourly. "They stink!"

With the immediate threat eliminated, they surveyed the area as Azura attempted once more to get her bearings. Tamsyn found a sign, face down in the rubble, and turned it over.

"'Drake-A-Dozen Furniture Emporium,'" she read. "'Exotic Styles.'"

"I remember that place!" Azura exclaimed. "Old Hrormir Snow-strider was the proprietor."

"Snow-strider?" Tamsyn mused. "I know that name. There was a Skorm Snow-strider who lived way back during the Dragon Wars. He was a famous general who attempted to clear Forelhost of a conclave of Dragon Cultists, but was called away when the Snow Elves sacked Saarthal."

"He was the ancestor of Hrormir, so the old man told me, decades ago," Azura said. "Hrormir was the grandfather of Thaena."

"Thaena?" Tamsyn exclaimed. "Jarl Korir's wife?"

"The same," Azura nodded. "It's no wonder she holds a grudge against the wizards she believes responsible for the Collapse."

Tamsyn simmered. "I can't seem to convince her otherwise. 'You weren't here then,' she keeps telling me. I had to bite my tongue to not point out that neither was she!"

A bit further on they found the remains of an inn. It was the original Frozen Hearth.

"The sign hasn't changed much," Azura observed.

"Why change what works?" Tamsyn quipped.

Beyond the remains of the Frozen Hearth was an open archway leading to the gate house that would have led to the fortified interior of the old city. The ground was steadily rising here, though the roof of the cavern still vanished into the gloom overhead. The portcullis at the gate was down, and they entered the gatehouse in hopes of finding a lever that would raise it.

It was too dark to see very much, and Tamsyn fired off a Candlelight, then gasped. Azura saw the cause immediately: two small skeletons lay near a doll house, a toy chest and a rocking horse. One skeleton clutched a girl doll, the other, a boy doll. A toy dragon lay inside the chest.

"Children!" Tamsyn exclaimed past the lump in her throat. "Here? Why?"

"They probably took refuge from the storms," Azura surmised. "I'm guessing that one or both of their parents were gatekeepers. The private, family quarters would have been further back inside the wall, but that part has collapsed." She began to gather the toys together.

"What are you doing?" Tamsyn demanded.

"These are toys," Azura explained. "They were meant to be played with, not stuck here as a memorial. Those two children won't be needing them any longer. Besides, I thought Julia or the twins might like them. If not…" Her voice trailed off and she rubbed her abdomen protectively. Tamsyn's eyes widened.

"By the Nine!" the Arch-Mage exclaimed. "Azura! Are you…?"

Her friend nodded, blushing slightly and grinning like a fool.

"Does Enthir know?"

"Of course, he does!" Azura said with some asperity. "He was there, after all! And it's one reason he didn't want me coming down here. But there was no way I was going to allow you to come down here by yourself!"

Tamsyn gave the Bosmer mage a tight hug. "We'll take the toys then, and treasure them," she decided. "Though the chest, the dollhouse and the horse are a bit too bulky to bring along."

"You forget who you're dealing with," Azura said smugly. With a gesture from her hand and a softly spoken word, the three larger toys were soon reduced to a more portable size and carefully tucked away in Azura's backpack. While she did this, Tamsyn murmured a blessing over the two, pitifully small remains, that their souls would be reunited with their loved ones in Aetherius.

They found a lever near the gatehouse entrance that took both of them to shove against to get it to lift, and the portcullis outside grudgingly obliged. Beyond the gate the land rose sharply, yet even here, ships had been tossed like toys against the rocks, smashed to bits against the cliff face. Piles of timbers and stone lay at the base of the cliff, and part of the wall had collapsed, forming a sort of slope upwards to the top of the ramparts.

"Looks like that's the only way forward," Tamsyn said, taking the lead.

"I agree," Azura nodded. "We still haven't found the Temple, or the town hall, which reportedly sank, rather than collapsed."

"What about the Jarl's palace?" Tamsyn asked. "You said that was on the upper level of the city, as well."

"I think it's under there," Azura replied somberly, pointing to the landslide in front of them.

"Oh."

There was nothing more to be said. The two women scrambled up the slick slope of the stone parapet and followed it around, only occasionally igniting a Candlelight to be sure of their way in the gloom. They passed by crenellations that gave them an overview of the devastated town and harbor area. They made their way through tunnels created by fallen rock and frozen ice, held back from blocking the way only by means of tilted watchtowers, pushed across the parapet by the forces of nature. At points along the way, they could see ballistae still pointing uselessly out to a non-existent sea to warn off pirates and invading armies that would threaten the old city no more.

Finally, they emerged into a concourse that led them up a flight of stairs to a plaza dominated by a statue to Talos; but it was a statue like none Tamsyn had ever seen.

"A _winged_ Talos?" she exclaimed, surprised.

"I remember this statue!" Azura said, excitedly. "It was not far from the Temple! It represents Talos Ascending, and was carved soon after Tiber Septim's death in Year 38 of the Third Era."

"I've never seen one with wings before," Tamsyn remarked.

"That's because the Altmer, even then, refused to believe he became a god, and when the Second Aldmeri Dominion rose to power, they banned effigies to Talos Ascending. They couldn't ban shrines to him completely, because that would have caused an uprising among the Nords that they weren't prepared to face just then. The wings were omitted in future statues, to appease the Second Dominion, but shrines to Talos are still scattered all over Skyrim."

Tamsyn gave a derisive snort. "I maintain that if he's not a god, why do people still receive his blessing at his shrines?"

"You won't get an argument from me," Azura shrugged. "Come on! I think the Temple is up there, beyond those stairs."

The Temple of the Gods was indeed at the top of the hill, and from here they could see the roof of the cavern overhead. It was a mosaic of rock and ice, dripping slowly here and there as sea water found its way down. It seemed to be solid enough, but Tamsyn and Azura both shuddered to think of the consequences, should it give way to gravity.

"The town hall should have been over that way," Azura said, pointing past the graveyard, "but all I see is solid rock from here. I don't think it survived."

An unearthly, hollow screech came from the cemetery, and black shapes, darker than night, rose up from the graves. Pin points of evil red light blazed as eyes, which glared at the two intruders in this domain of the dead.

"Incoming!" Tamsyn called, and magicka flared as both women threw off protective mage armor and brought spells into their hands.

Tamsyn cast a Master-level Bane of the Undead, as Azura drew Sting and Grave. The Bosmer mage knew that Grave might not be as effective as her Daedric blade, with its shock enchantment, but she felt that dual-wielding might have better effect than one blade alone, even with a spell in the other hand.

The Master-level Restoration spell held most of the undead at bay. Two of the seven wraiths fled to the furthest part of the graveyard available, while one of them incinerated on the spot. Azura advanced on the two closest to her, while Tamsyn kept pace with her to keep her within the protective circle. The two wraiths ignited, and Azura finished them off quickly, darting and dancing about them, never staying in one place long enough for their shadow weapons to touch her. The next two were more cautious, and one raised a bow made of sinister darkness.

"Change of tactics!" Azura declared, sheathing Grave and dodging to one side. She cast her ward spell that blocked missiles and kept it in front as she continued to advance.

Tamsyn moved with her, and cast a Chain Lightning at the two shades cowering at the far end of the cemetery. Electricity crackled and sparked as the plasma bolts leaped from one to the next. The wraiths collapsed into puddles of ectoplasm, and Tamsyn turned her attention to the one with the bow. She also threw up Azura's warding spell, and continued to move forward, pushing the wraiths further back until there was no escape for them. The one Azura was fighting was using a sword and shield conjured straight from the Void, but it had moved to one side far enough to avoid the effects of the Bane spell. Azura pursued it, dropping her ward and redrawing Grave.

There followed a volley of thrust, parry, riposte, and block as the Bosmer mage and the undead shade traded blows. Tamsyn wanted to help, but realized there was little she could do until the archer was dealt with, and it was proving to be particularly resilient to her spell. Inevitably, however, between the Bane and the Arch-Mage's onslaught of shock spells, the wraith eventually succumbed, and Tamsyn turned to Azura to see the Bosmer mage stagger to her knees, the shadow looming over her.

"Oh, no, you don't!" she cried, and sent off a powerful Thunderbolt, which, in combination with the damage Azura had already done to the creature, caused it to collapse into goo immediately. Tamsyn rushed to Azura's side, healing magic flaring.

"Are you alright?" she worried, pouring magical health into her friend.

"I am now," Azura smiled. "Thanks! He was tougher – and smarter – than I anticipated. He kept himself out of that Bane spell as much as he could."

"We can rest a bit, if you need to," Tamsyn assured her.

"Let's go inside the Temple, then," Azura suggested. "We can rest in there."

They moved around to the Temple entrance and opened the doors, peering inside.

"…or maybe not," the Bosmer mage finished, seeing the piles of mummified remains everywhere.

* * *

Marcus and Odahviing landed on the Great Porch of Dragonsreach. Subconsciously, he noted that the dining table and chairs had been pulled to one side to allow the dragon to land. The Steward, Proventus, and the Jarl's brother, Hrongar, often liked to take their midday meal on the porch in fine weather, such as today. Sending Odahviing off, but advising him to stay in the area, Marcus strode into the upper hall of the Jarl of Whiterun's palace and made his way down the stairs to where Balgruuf waited with Iona.

"Marcus!" the Nord ruler exclaimed. "It's good you got here so quickly. I expected you to use…other means, however," he continued, referring in words unspoken to the Portal that resided within the Jarl's private quarters.

"I would have," Marcus admitted, "but I have a feeling I'm going to need Odahviing again, and he can't use our alternate method. Is there somewhere we can talk, privately?"

"Of course, Dragonborn," Jarl Balgruuf said. "Irileth, you and Proventus handle things for a bit. The Dragonborn and I need to talk."

"Of course, Jarl Balgruuf," they chorused, and turned their attentions to the line of petitioners waiting to be heard.

"What about me, Father?" Frothar asked, and Marcus was startled to hear such a deep voice coming from so young a man. He knew Balgruuf had been grooming the lad to someday take his place, but Frothar was no longer a boy. He was at least as tall as Balgruuf himself, and nearly as tall as Marcus. He had filled out in the last few years, after finally being allowed to train with heavy armor and real weapons. There was even a scruffy beard clinging to the young man's cheeks and chin.

"You stay here and help our people as best you can," Balgruuf instructed his son. "Listen to their complaints and heed the advice of Avenicci and Irileth. If something is truly too complicated to judge, hold it over for me to consider."

"Yes, Father," Frothar nodded somberly. "I won't let you down!"

"There's a good lad," Balgruuf beamed, patting the young man's shoulder, before turning back to Marcus and Iona. "Come with me, you two," he said gruffly. "Irileth," he called. "Send Farengar up to me."

"At once, my Jarl," the Housecarl bowed.

Several minutes later found Marcus, Iona, the Jarl of Whiterun and his Court Wizard cloistered in Balgruuf's private office. The door was closed, with guards posted outside, and Farengar sealed it with a Muffle spell.

"Alright," Marcus began, blowing out a breath of frustration. "Tell me exactly what you know, Iona."

His former Housecarl related everything she had seen and heard, in further detail than she had been able to do second-hand through a borrowed ear bud. When she had finished, Balgruuf frowned.

"This isn't good, my friend," he intoned. "If Delphine has…how did you once put it? 'Gone rogue'?" At Marcus' nod, he continued. "It puts all our other operations at risk."

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know," Marcus said sourly. "Iona, after they left – where did you say it was?"

"A Dwemer ruin known as Arkngthamz, Thane," she replied. Part of his mind was amused that she still called him 'Thane.'

"Right," he nodded. "After they left Arkngthamz, which way did they head?"

"Back up the only road in that area, Thane," she answered. "Where they would have gone after that is anyone's guess. I wasn't able to follow, because the reports Nelkir gave me were urgent, and Jarl Balgruuf needed to see them right away. Besides, if I had followed, I might have been seen. I'm no rogue."

Marcus nodded and ran a hand through his hair. "What were in those reports, Balgruuf?" he asked. Long ago, the Jarl had given him permission to address him by name, when they were not in public.

"Ironically, the reports mention Arkngthamz," Balgruuf said, handing the sheaf of parchments over to the Dragonborn, who skimmed through them.

"Aetherium?" Marcus questioned, looking up. "I remember this coming up once before, when Tamsyn and I hosted the Emperor's Councilor, Lance de Fer."

"I think you mean that Greyshadow fellow, don't you?" Balgruuf grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Who are you talking about?" Farengar demanded.

"Oh, I forgot you didn't know," Marcus apologized, and filled the Court Mage in on events that had transpired not very long ago.

"So, this Dante Greyshadow is actually the heir to the Ruby Throne?" Farengar marveled when Marcus finished.

"Yes, but this is under the strictest of confidences," Marcus intoned. "The court and the people of Cyrodiil know him as Lance de Fer, Councilor to Titus Mede the Third, and nothing else, understand? If I find out you've let word slip to anyone—"

"There's no need for threats, Dragonborn!" Farengar said indignantly. "I know when to hold my tongue. After all, you didn't find out about Mephala from _me!"_

"And I already apologized for stealing the key from you," Marcus capitulated. "But I won't apologize for stealing the Ebony Blade."

"Well, some good came from that," Balgruuf huffed, "so I can't be too angry about it, either. My children were saved from a great evil, and that evil now works its machinations on our enemy, so maybe it will all work out in the end. But back to business…"

"Agreed," Marcus said. "Farengar, I know a little bit about Aetherium. Why would the Dominion think they could use it, if it's so hard to mine?"

"Hold up a minute," Balgruuf interrupted. "We don't all know what this…'Aetherium' stuff is. Tell us what you know, Marcus."

"It's not much," he admitted. "Tamsyn could tell you more, but she's…busy…at the moment. From what I understand, it's a mineral that has magical properties, and anything made with it would be extremely powerful."

"There's more to it than that," Farengar said, warming to the topic. Research was, after all, his bailiwick. "According to the book, _The Aetherium Wars_ by Taron Dreth, the Dwemer were able to mine huge stores of Aetherium, but it had to be contained out of doors because of its…um…'harmonic instability.'"

"What does that mean?" Balgruuf demanded.

"Too much in too tight a space and it goes 'boom!'" Marcus supplied.

Balgruuf didn't realize his mouth had gaped open.

"If the Dominion is looking into finding deposits of Aetherium," Iona mused, "it could mean they're trying to build powerful weapons to use in the next war."

"If that's the case, we need to stop them!" Balgruuf declared.

"How?" Marcus asked, reasonably. "We don't know enough yet to know where they're looking, how much they've found already, or what they intend to do with it once they have it."

"It's a bit more complicated than that," Farengar assured them. "Even if they found deposits of Aetherium, they would have to find a way to mine it. The Dwemer, it's reported, had special tools for that, so as not to set off the harmonic energies in a possibly disastrous manner. And once they had the ore, it needed to be smelted in a special forge. No ordinary forge would be able to do it."

" _Marcus, are you there?"_

The ear bud tingled, and Marcus recognized the voice as that of Councilor Lance de Fer himself, also known as the Grey Fox, Dante Greyshadow.

"Hold on everyone, I'm getting a call." He tapped the ear bud to amplify the volume and used the energy of a dragon soul he held in reserve to boost the radius. It was a trick Miraak had taught him, and he usually used it to project his voice when he was required to address crowds. It seemed to work well enough on the ear bud as well.

" _Shariik,"_ he murmured. _Louder._ "Go ahead Councilor," he said. "I'm with Balgruuf, Iona and Farengar. You can speak freely."

" _I'd rather speak to you in person,"_ came the reply. _"Where are you?"_

"Dragonsreach," Balgruuf answered for Marcus. "My quarters. Come on through."

In a few minutes, a warp opened up at the Portal pedestal, and Dante Greyshadow stepped through. Marcus noticed he was wearing his Nightingale armor, which meant something serious was afoot. After perfunctory greetings, the Breton man got down to business.

"I've been keeping my eyes on Dominion movements, as you know," he told them. "They have decided the Ayleid ruins are no longer safe, and have been compromised. They're moving their operations to more remote ruins – old abandoned forts, mines and caverns scattered all over Cyrodiil. I don't have enough people to seek them all out. It means getting information out of the Dominion is going to be harder, and riskier."

"We have another problem, too," Marcus said, relaying to him about Delphine's activities.

The Grey Fox's mouth compressed to a thin line. "I don't want to tell you how to do your business, Dragonborn," Dante said, "but if she worked for me and pulled a stunt like that, she wouldn't still be working for me."

"I'm not going to murder her," Marcus scowled. "She's misguided, yes, but—"

"She's gone off the deep end of the pier," Greyshadow cut in. "And she's compromised our operations by her actions. She's put everything at risk over her little vendetta. If you won't terminate her, at least put her in a dark cell and throw away the key."

"I'm inclined to agree with the Councilor," Balgruuf rumbled.

Marcus ran a hand through his hair again. It was an indicator of the level of frustration he was feeling. "There's more bad news than Delphine's defection," he reminded them. "The Dominion seems to have made an effort to follow up on rumors of some 'Aetherium Forge,' and they're nosing around Arkngthamz."

Dante blinked. "I've received those reports as well, from my own operatives," he volunteered.

"Then we have to assume it's true," Marcus said. "Farengar, does your research give any hint about the kind of things the Dwarves created with this Aetherium?"

"Unfortunately, no, Dragonborn," the mage replied. "The only thing that was known was that most of their Aetherium came from their deepest delvings, and that the city of Arkngthamz led four other Dwemer city-states across Skyrim in the research and uses of the mineral. It was said to be a glowing, blue ore, alchemically useless, but rich in magicka."

"Glowing blue ore?" Marcus echoed. "Ho-lee shit. Blackreach! You mean to say we've been working and training around that stuff down there, and never knew what it was?"

"Are you talking about those large, glowing boulders, that none of our miners could break?" Balgruuf demanded.

"Never having been to Blackreach myself," Farengar shrugged, "I can only assume you're correct, my Jarl."

Marcus shook his head in wonder. "I never anticipated _that."_

"It would be disastrous if the Dominion found a way into our hidden training grounds," Iona said.

"In more ways than one," Marcus agreed. They were silent for several minutes, letting this new information sink in. Finally, Marcus spoke. "Iona, I want you to continue keeping an eye on Delphine's activities. See if you can't get Esbern to come to you first if he has any leads on dragons who might join our cause. You can speak _Dovahzul,_ I assume?"

"Haltingly, my Thane, but yes," the Housecarl nodded.

"Good," Marcus replied. "Take this ear bud," he continued, drawing one from his belt pouch. "But keep it hidden. If Delphine sees you with one that she didn't issue to you, it will only heighten her paranoia. If she makes any kind of major, game-changing move, let me know as soon as you can."

"Yes, my Thane," the unhappy Nord replied. She disliked subterfuge, and hated the knowledge that her own Grand Master had betrayed her new Oath of office, but Iona knew where her loyalties lay, and it wasn't with the Breton woman.

"What about these Dominion reports?" Balgruuf demanded.

"I'll take care of that," Marcus said. "Councilor, if you're available, I'd like you to come with me."

"You weren't expecting to leave me behind, I hope?" Dante queried blandly.

"Even if I did, I suspect you'd be tailing me the whole way," Marcus chuckled.

"You're not wrong," was all the Breton man said. "Besides, I was planning to investigate this anyway. You're welcome to tag along, if you like."

* * *

By mutual consent, the two men decided to walk the distance to Arkngthamz, rather than have Marcus call Odahviing, or purchase new horses specifically for the trip. It would be far easier to sneak up on the Dwemer ruin on foot, if there were any Dominion operatives in the area. They did, however, use the Portal in Balgruuf's quarters to take them to Understone Keep in Markarth. Interim Jarl Esmerelda welcomed them warmly, and generously gave them food and supplies for their trip.

"Are we going to stop by this Sky Haven Temple of yours?" Dante asked as they walked along.

"No," the Dragonborn replied, shaking his head. "I trust Iona to keep an eye on Delphine. I don't want to raise Delphine's suspicions. It might force her to change whatever tactics and plans she's already following."

"I see you're finally using that brain of yours for something besides padding the inside of your skull," the Grey Fox teased. Marcus threw him a sour look.

"I'd like to think I've handled things fairly well so far," he said stiffly.

"'Fairly well' isn't always good enough," Dante countered. "You have to anticipate your enemies' every move, if you're to stay ahead of them."

"Delphine isn't my enemy," Marcus argued.

"No?"

The simple question caught him off guard.

"She's certainly not your friend," Dante continued. "If she was, she wouldn't be hiding things behind your back. She wouldn't be going against your own rules of conduct. And she certainly wouldn't be recruiting other members of your organization into countermanding your orders and following her instructions alone. In my organization, I get rid of people I can't trust."

"I trust Delphine to do the right thing," Marcus said defensively, but even to his own ears, it sounded weak.

"Then you're a fool, Dragonborn," the Guildmaster said succinctly. "And in my experience, fools don't last very long."

"I'm no fool, Greyshadow," Marcus scowled. "I just think Delphine is…confused."

The derisive bark of laughter that greeted this statement told Marcus that his 21st Century approach to human relations didn't translate well to a medieval setting like Skyrim.

 _You've been in this world how long now, Marcus?_ he asked himself. _Seven years? And in all that time you still haven't learned that not all your previous life's experiences will help you here?_

It wasn't the Breton man's words that rankled so much as the possibility that Delphine had betrayed him. They had never seen eye to eye, and he had never fully trusted her from their first meeting, but he had thought turning the Blades from a dragon-killing organization into one devoted to hunting down the faction that had nearly wiped them out a generation ago would have given the Breton Grand Master a new purpose; that it would have fired within her a desire for revenge against the very organization responsible for the deaths of so many of her predecessors. He didn't like to admit that in this instance, he might possibly have been very wrong. It was a mistake that appeared to have already cost him dearly, in the number of dragons he might have been able to recruit to his cause. It would make it much harder to recruit others, especially if they had been approached by Tolasiik first, and had been promised _tinvaak_ before aggression.

Dante eyed the younger man carefully, and saw the conflict of emotions crossing the Dragonborn's face. It was tempting to say something to soften the blow, but he steeled himself against it. Too often people refused to accept what was right there in front of them, and Dante had learned too early that softness led to mistakes. With the stakes as high as they were right now, they couldn't afford mistakes. The Dragonborn would have to accept that he couldn't trust everyone around him. A bitter tonic to swallow, admittedly, but necessary if the organization was to survive.

"Dragonborn, do you ever sing tavern songs?" Dante asked out of the blue.

"What, like 'Ragnar the Red'?" Marcus chuckled. "Gods, no! There are too many crooners out there belting that one out. I like to choose songs few have ever heard before."

"Songs from your world?" Dante asked. He knew Marcus' origins, after all.

"Mostly," the younger man agreed. "They don't all translate very well, and a lot would be completely out of context here. The instruments in my old world were more complicated, and required – for lack of a better term – shock magic to make them work."

"Shock magic?"

"Yep, a continuous, steady supply of low-grade shock energy," Marcus chuckled. "That's why a lot of songs I _could_ play, I simply can't. They just wouldn't sound right on a lute."

Dante tried to turn this around in his mind, how a musical instrument would require magicka to make it work, but the concept baffled him. "I'll just have to take your word for it, then," he replied, shaking his head. Marcus grinned.

"Still," the Breton man insisted, "I've only heard you sing quiet, serious songs, the few times I've heard you sing at all. Surely your world must have had songs people would sing in the inns and pubs."

Marcus laughed out loud. "Oh yeah, there were a lot of those," he admitted. "I just rarely allow myself to get drunk enough to sing them."

"Challenge accepted," Dante smirked.

"Why does it matter to you?" Marcus asked.

Dante shrugged. "I've heard you sing. You have a fine voice, and you're very talented on the lute. Besides, it helps pass the time."

"Calling attention to myself on the road by singing isn't exactly the best tactic," Marcus frowned.

"Perhaps not," the Guildmaster allowed, "but it also tends to throw off suspicion that we're out here for any other purpose. It makes your enemy underestimate you."

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" Marcus demanded.

"If you really don't want to, it's up to you," Dante replied mildly. "I'm just being companionable. We do have a long way to go. Besides, most people think you're a stick in the mud. I'd like to think they're wrong."

"Stick in the—" Marcus gaped. He'd honestly never considered what other people thought of him, as long as they didn't think too badly. He had a reputation to uphold, after all. He glared at the Breton man, trying to surmise if the Guildmaster had any ulterior motive for wanting the Dragonborn to relax his guard, but the man was inscrutable. He sighed, giving in, and made a show of clearing his throat and began singing as they walked along.

"Blame it all on my roots,

I showed up in boots

And ruined your black-tie affair.

The last one to know,

The last one to show,

I was the last one

You thought you'd see there.

"And I saw the surprise,

And the fear in his eyes

When I took his glass of champagne.

And I toasted you

Said, honey, we may be through,

But you'll never hear me complain.

"'Cause I've got friends in low places,

Where the whiskey drowns

And the beer chases my blues away.

And I'll be okay.

I'm not big on social graces,

Think I'll slip on down to the Oasis

Oh, I've got friends in low places!"*

"You see?" Dante grinned. _"That's_ the kind of song I wanted to hear! I knew you had one in you!" Chuckling at the lyrics, Dante joined him in the second chorus, and the two men caroled their way down the road. Marcus had to explain afterwards what a 'black-tie affair' and 'champagne' were, the significance of 'the blues,' and that the Oasis was not a watering hole in the desert, but a tavern.

Two hours later found them creeping along the trail that led up to Arkngthamz, all fun and games put aside. Marcus breathed out his Aura Whisper, but other than some wildlife, nothing showed up. They could see the corpse of the dead dragon, lying on the path up to the ruins, and Marcus' brow furrowed in anger. As they approached, the soul ignited, flying into the Dragonborn as the Breton Guildmaster watched in awe.

"I never get tired of seeing that," Dante murmured. "It's right out of the legends."

"It seems quiet enough," Marcus said, coming back to himself after sorting out the soul in his mind. "There's a bear behind the shrubbery over there, so either we sneak around it or deal with it. People keep telling me they'll leave you alone if you don't bother them, but that hasn't been my experience."

"Or mine," Dante agreed. "How's your sneaking these days?"

"Still not as good as yours," Marcus admitted. "But better than it was."

"We'd best just take it out, then," Dante said regretfully. "Its roaring will carry for leagues in these hills. It might alert enemies too far away for your Whisper to detect. We don't need Thalmor following along behind us in there."

"For all we know, the Thalmor are already in there," Marcus pointed out.

The ground rumbled under their feet again, and the two men froze until it subsided.

"And don't think _that_ doesn't scare the piss out of me," Marcus gulped. "Because it does."

"I don't blame you," Dante agreed, a bit paler than he was a moment ago. Going into a Dwemer ruin with frequent, unpredictable temblors going off was insanity worthy of Sheogorath.

A few well-placed arrows took care of the bear, and they headed up the stairs to the carved, geometrically-designed bronze doors and pushed them open. Daylight spilled into a long, wide corridor with piles of stone and debris strewn everywhere. Dust hung in the air, from the recent temblor.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Dragonborn," Dante murmured, "but these piles of rubble don't look that old. There's not a lot of settling here."

"This place has also been subject to earthquakes," Marcus reminded him. "That's bound to keep shaking things up." He cast a nervous glance overhead as he spoke. The stone and bronze above them looked solid enough, but one could never tell.

"I mean it doesn't have the look of most Dwemer ruins I've been in," Dante argued. "Many of them look…abandoned, for lack of a better term."

"The Dwarves have been gone a long time," Marcus pointed out, "but I know what you mean. This is a ruin, but it doesn't look like it's been ruined for very long."

They spoke in hushed tones and whispers, their voices carrying ahead of them. If the Thalmor were already here, they didn't want to alert them to their presence.

" _Turn back."_

"You say something, Greyshadow?" Marcus whispered, looking back at the Guildmaster. Dante was casting his eyes all around.

"I didn't say anything," he replied, shaking his head.

Marcus sent out his Aura Whisper again, but could see nothing in their immediate area. Further ahead, however, shapes were moving. What they were, he couldn't yet tell. Shrugging, they moved on.

Part of the corridor had shifted due to the earthquake, with the part they were standing in left higher than the rest. Fortunately, a decorative column had fallen across the gap, making it easier to get to the other side. A bit further on, it turned to the left and continued on past another large pile of collapsed roof.

" _Please, turn back…before it's too late!"_

Dante drew Mehrunes Razor. "I know I heard something that time!" he declared softly.

Marcus had drawn his sword as well. "There's nothing around us," he insisted. "I checked."

"Could they be invisible?" Dante asked.

"It wouldn't matter," Marcus countered. "I'd still know they were there. Let's keep moving."

The corridor opened into a large cavern, and the two men could see that the worked stone they left behind had been only one building in a larger complex, a city-state, which most Dwemer settlements were. The cavern that lay before them was split by a chasm through which a swift-moving river rushed by, several yards below, before disappearing into the bowels of Nirn. Further along to their left, a large stone pillar had toppled across the gap, bridging it. As they stood there, taking it all in, another rumble shook the ground, and a massive chunk of rock fell into the chasm, not twenty yards from where they stood. Both men gulped.

A soft sound sighed behind them, and they whirled around. The ghostly form of a woman stood there, surveying them in disapproval.

" _What are you still doing here?"_ she demanded, folding her arms across her chest. _"Let me guess. You're here for the treasure, aren't you? Just like all the others."_

"Who are you?" Marcus asked kindly, sheathing his blade.

 _"The name's Katria,"_ the ghost woman replied _. "I am - was - an adventurer. Raided ruins like this for nigh on twenty years. I was on the trail of something big. It led me here, and... I didn't make it."_

"Treasure?" Dante echoed, picking up on his favorite subject. "What treasure?"

Katria sighed. _"It's a long story,"_ she replied. _"You ever hear of Aetherium? A rare mineral used by the Dwarves."_

"Yes, actually," Marcus said eagerly. "It's one of the reasons we're here. I'm Marcus, by the way."

"My name's Dante," the Breton man bowed. "Charmed to make your acquaintance. Tell us what you know about Aetherium, please."

" _Well, supposedly, the Dwemer had to build a special forge,"_ she continued, _"the Aetherium Forge, to even work with it. The items they made were so powerful they went to war over it, and the Forge was lost. Or, so the story goes."_

"And that story led you here?" Dante surmised.

Katria nodded. _"I spent my life tracking down that legend…until my damned apprentice stole everything from me and published it all under his own name! And now…now I can't rest,"_ she continued fiercely. _"Not until I have proof. Something to show the world what I discovered; that my life…mattered."_

"Wait…" Marcus interrupted, "that book… _The Aetherium Wars_ by Taron Dreth! That was your story? You're the one he dedicated the book to?"

" _Oh, you've read that book, have you?"_ she sneered. _"That was my theory, you know. My research. My life's work. All of it, lost! Stolen by my own damn apprentice! That's how I ended up here. I can't rest. Not until I find the Forge, until I can prove that it was my discovery. Mine, not his!"_ Her face fell. _"But it's…hopeless,"_ she sighed resignedly. _"I died here, just like all the others. Turn back,"_ she pleaded again. _"Turn back before you become the next victims!"_

"We can handle ourselves," Dante assured her. In spite of his usually detached demeanor, he found himself sympathizing with Katria. She truly had been given a raw deal, and helping her might end up helping them as well.

"You don't need to worry about us," Marcus assured her. "But has anyone else come through here recently? Any elves in gold armor and black robes?"

" _No,"_ Katria replied. _"You're the first to come through in a long while."_

Marcus felt relief wash over him. They were ahead of the Thalmor, at least.

" _I'm not going to convince you to leave, am I?"_ Katria asked with a wry twist of a smile.

"Nope," the two men said succinctly.

Katria rolled her eyes and sighed. _"I know, I know. I was just like you, once. Well, if you want to reach the summit, you're going to need some help. You…need a hand?"_

"Navigating a Dwemer ruin? Sure!" Marcus enthused. "Any knowledge you have of this place will help!"

" _Great!"_ Katria beamed. _"Lead on, then!"_

"Lead on?" Dante blinked. "You've been here before. Why don't you take the lead?"

" _I don't know where you want to go,"_ Katria replied.

"You mentioned the summit," Marcus said. "Why there? Wouldn't any 'treasure' be in the lowest part of the ruin?"

" _The Nords bury their treasure,"_ Katria replied. _"The Dwemer put theirs in the highest towers. Of course, it's all protected and surrounded by their traps and automatons. Getting to it will be very tricky, and very dangerous. And there's the Falmer to deal with, as well."_

"There's Falmer here?" Dante asked, dismayed. He hated dealing with them.

"I thought that's what I saw earlier," Marcus nodded, "but there were other energies I couldn't interpret."

" _You saw energies?"_ Katria asked, impressed.

"He's Dragonborn," Dante offered, before Marcus could brush it off. "He has an ability to see life energy, if he chooses."

" _Dragonborn, eh?"_ Katria mused. _"I heard stories about them, back when I was…you know, alive. Tiber Septim was supposed to be Dragonborn. But I didn't know there was another one."_

"I've only been Dragonborn less than a decade," Marcus qualified, throwing a sour look at the Guildmaster, who gave him an innocent stare.

" _That would explain it, then,"_ Katria nodded. _"I've been dead at least that long."_

They had worked their way over to the far end of the chasm, by this time, to the pillar that had fallen across it. It looked very steep, and slippery, and Marcus steeled himself to step onto it. The water below rushed along, and though he knew a fall might not kill him, he could very well drown if he were to be carried along and sucked down into some underground reservoir.

The pillar had actually broken into two pieces, with both halves resting on a pinnacle of dirt and stone, jutting out of the river. A woman's body lay on the pinnacle. Katria.

" _This is where I ended up,"_ Katria said sadly. _"It was…quite the fall."_

"Not to be crass," Dante ventured, "but if you died a decade ago, why hasn't your body…?"

" _Decomposed?"_ Katria supplied with some amusement. _"Because I'm still here, and I wouldn't let it,"_ she answered. _"Fair enough?"_

"Fair enough," Dante agreed. It probably wasn't the real answer, but he wasn't going to push it.

" _Grab my journal, would you?"_ Katria requested. _"We're going to need it."_

While Marcus waited, Dante went through the dead woman's pack and found the journal she mentioned. There were a couple of healing potions in there as well, and when he hefted them and raised an eyebrow, Katria nodded. In the bottom of the pack was an intricately carved silver ring. It wasn't particularly valuable, but in a moment of impulsive sentimentalism, he palmed it.

"Let's get moving," he told Marcus, allowing the Dragonborn to take the lead. Katria fell in behind him. The other half of the broken pillar bridged the gap between their pinnacle of dirt and rock, and a sort of utility duct through which ran several large bronze pipes.

" _Watch yourselves in here,"_ Katria warned. _"Since the quake, this place has been pretty unstable."_

"I'd say that's putting it mildly," Marcus murmured. Two Dwemer spiders jumped out of trap doors on the pipes. Marcus already had his bow out and made short work of them before they could get too close. The catwalk they were on sank into fetid, stagnant water at the far end, and there seemed to be no way to get through.

"Let me see if there's a pathway through," the Dragonborn offered. He set his bow and quiver down before firing off a Waterbreathing spell and sinking into the murky depths. He emerged a few minutes later, whipping his head quickly to get the water out of his eyes. "There's no other way through there," he told them, "but I found a chest I couldn't get open." He pulled himself out of the water and retrieved his weapons.

Dante sighed. He _really_ didn't want to go in, but the possibility of treasure – or even a key that might be needed further on – was too strong to ignore. Marcus stepped aside as the Guildmaster said, "I'll go take a look. Hold this." He shoved his own bow and quiverful of arrows into the Dragonborn's hands, but didn't see the grin on Marcus' face as the waters closed over his head.

Moments later he sputtered to the surface.

"Dragonborn!" he demanded angrily as he swam back to the sloping catwalk. "Do you really expect me to believe you couldn't open that lock? The rawest recruit in my organization couldn't have failed to!"

"I just wanted to you _immerse_ yourself in this adventure, as I've done," Marcus chuckled. Dante scowled, shaking out his Nightingale hood.

"Fine," he bit out, snatching back his bow and quiver. "But I'm keeping what I found in it!"

"Fair enough," Marcus grinned.

" _If you two boys are done playing, we have work to do,"_ Katria drawled.

"Yes, mother," the Dragonborn chortled.

Katria rolled her eyes. _"I think there's a way through over here,"_ she said pointing towards the pipes, that took a sharp turn and sloped upwards. _"You'll have to climb along the pipes, though."_

"Not a problem for me," Dante assured her. "Dragonborn? Think you can manage it?"

"I'll have to," Marcus nodded, all frivolity set aside. "Just go ahead of me and wait on the other side."

It took only a few moments for the Breton Guildmaster to negotiate the slippery pipes and drop down safely to the corridor that continued where the catwalk would have ended, had it not collapsed. Marcus, on the other hand, took quite a bit longer, especially when the entire complex shifted and rumbled again, dust and debris sifting down, as another quake shook the area. He clung to a joint in the pipe, terrified of slipping off, but determined not to show it.

 _It's not as bad as the Whalebone Bridge, Marcus,_ he told himself. _Just remember that!_

Eventually, he made it to the other side, and the three adventurers continued a short way to a gate that opened and closed of its own accord. Steam-powered pistons on the other side hissed and churned, and glowing paddles spun rapidly, rotating up and down on their shafts. They were able to slip through the gate when it opened, but their way was blocked on the other side by another gate. The paddles on the nearby shaft were idle, and not moving.

" _See that thing?"_ Katria pointed it out. _"Dwarves called them 'kinetic resonators.' You don't see them very often; at least, not among the clans of Skyrim."_

"What did they used them for?" Dante asked, marveling at the ingenuity of a lost race.

" _Lots of things,"_ Katria explained. _"Mostly for opening and closing things like doors, bridges, chests. That sort of thing. Just hit them and they'll do…whatever it is they're supposed to do."_

Obligingly, Dante struck out at the resonator with the flat of Mehrunes' Razor. It spun upwards, and the gate on the far side of the room opened, revealing a flight of stairs leading up. Katria dropped to a crouch, and the two men quickly followed.

" _Falmer up ahead,"_ she whispered. _"Damn things are like flies. No matter how many you kill…"_ She let her voice trail off. The corridor of worked stone took a sharp turn to the left and up another flight of stairs, beyond which the two men could see an open cavern. Marcus realized they were now on the other side of the chasm they had seen when they first entered.

The two Falmer at the top of the stairs were a spellsword and a gloomlurker, and were little match for the Dragonborn and the Nightingale. The shaman who came out of the hut some distance away threw a frost cloak around herself and sent out a wave of bone-chilling snow and ice, but Marcus countered with his Fire Breath, and Dante and Katria shot off three arrows in quick succession, bringing her down.

"Two arrows, in the time I shot one?" Dante queried, lifting an eyebrow. "I'm impressed."

" _Zephyr is the fastest bow I've ever shot,"_ Katria said proudly. _"I just wish I knew where it landed when I fell. It wasn't with my body."_

The ground heaved underfoot, and both men froze until it subsided.

"We really need to finish this quickly," Dante muttered, paling a bit under his hood.

"I'm with you on that," Marcus agreed. "It looks like the path goes this way."

Their footpath took them along the edge of the chasm that split the complex in two. In some places they caught glimpses of sky overhead, but for the most part Arkngthamz seemed to have been another subterranean Dwarven city. Whether the paths along the abyss existed when the city was in its heyday or were something the Falmer put into place after the Dwemer left Tamriel, no one could say, but at several places along the way they were forced to cross the crevasse on routes of packed stone and dirt. Both men eyed these warily and moved across as quickly as they could.

Katria pointed out a Falmer on an overlook, and Marcus felled him with a single dragonbone arrow. Further up the path two more of the degenerated Snow Elves leaped out of mud-dauber-like hives built into the sides of the cliff. They fared no better than their predecessors.

" _Quite a place, huh?"_ Katria commented. _"It was even more impressive before it all fell to pieces."_

"How long ago was that?" Marcus asked.

" _About ten years ago or so,"_ Katria said. _"The Falmer were here long before that, though."_

They crossed another land bridge, and as they got to the other side another temblor shook the ground, sifting dirt and debris down on top of them. Marcus was certain the only thing keeping the mountain from crashing down on them at this point was good old Dwarven construction. They had come to an area of worked stone, and it looked like some sort of tower that had been partially crushed. A gate to their left led to an interior area, but even Dante couldn't get it open.

" _There's a chest in there,"_ Katria said. _"Door's sealed tight, though."_

"Not to put too fine a point on it," the Guildmaster drawled, "but aren't you a ghost? Can't you get through?"

" _It's…complicated,"_ Katria admitted. _"When you see me shoot an arrow, it's not a physical one. It's more a manifestation of my soul's energy. I want to strike out at that enemy, so I do. But the Dwemer had a way of locking their doors using a level of harmonics that interferes with my ability to manifest on the other side."_

"I didn't understand a word of that," Dante said, shaking his head.

"I did," Marcus replied, surprising the other two. "But let's not get into metaphysics and theology right now. The point is, do we need to go that way to get to the summit?"

" _Honestly, I don't know,"_ Katria replied. _"Everything got shifted around when the quakes hit. That way_ might _be a shortcut, but it also might be a dead end."_

"Well, if it _is_ a shortcut," Marcus reasoned, "it won't do us any good, since we can't get past that gate."

"How little faith you have in me, Dragonborn," Dante smirked. "I'm disappointed. I haven't found a lock yet that I can't get around or get past. Give me a few minutes, and let me see what I can discover."

"And what if you get into a place you can't get out of?" Marcus demanded. "How does that help us?"

"I've yet to find a place I couldn't get out of," the Nightingale grinned. "Evidence to that is that I'm still here."

"There's a first time for everything," Marcus said sourly, as the ground shifted once more. "Fine, but hurry up! Who knows if the next quake will be the Big One?"

"You'll barely know I'm gone," the Breton man smiled. He headed towards the ledge where it joined the main wall of the chasm and peered over the edge, leaping lightly into the void beyond. Marcus' heart leaped, but he didn't hear a splash above the rushing roar of the water below, and when he peered over the edge himself, it was to see the Guildmaster slipping into a tunnel far below.

" _So,"_ Katria began carefully, _"you two aren't the best of friends, I take it?"_

"Think of us as business associates with a common goal," Marcus supplied.

" _And what is that common goal, if I may ask?"_

"To try to find out more about this Aetherium Forge before the Thalmor do," he replied soberly.

" _Thalmor?"_ Katria asked. _"Who are they? Oh, wait…I think I remember. Aren't they some minor faction within the Aldmeri Dominion?"_

"Not so minor anymore, since the Great War," Marcus told her.

" _I barely remember the Great War,"_ Katria said. _"I spent most of my life in libraries and colleges, digging through old texts and manuscripts. I think I was in Morrowind for most of that conflict."_

"Hmm," Marcus mused. "Well, somehow – probably due to that apprentice of yours – the Dominion learned about rumors of this Aetherium Forge, and they want it for themselves."

" _And you want to keep it from them, I assume?"_ Katria surmised.

"Well, yeah, if it exists," Marcus said. "My wife seems to think it does."

" _Oh, you're married?"_

Marcus nodded. "She's…a bit of a scholar as well," he explained. "And she has the gift of Sight. She's a Seer. She knows that if the Dominion finds this Aetherium Forge and manages to make use of it, that it would only hasten the end for all of us."

" _I don't follow,"_ Katria frowned, puzzled.

Marcus blew out a sigh. "The Aldmeri Dominion doesn't believe other races deserve to exist. They think that by exterminating all of us, that they can 'fix the mistake'" – here he used his fingers to make air quotes – "that was caused when the Aedra were tricked by Lorkhan into creating Mundus and everything in it."

Katria was silent for a long moment. _"That's ridiculous!"_ she finally burst out.

"Tell me about it," Marcus drawled, rolling his eyes. "And that's why Greyshadow and I are here, to follow up on the rumors of the Forge, to see if they're true, and whether we need to worry about the Dominion getting their hands on it if they do."

"You two kids getting along alright?" Dante asked, coming up to them. The gate behind him was open.

"Hey!" Marcus grinned. "You were right! We barely knew you were gone."

"Nice," the Guildmaster growled. "Well, as it turned out, that way was a dead end. If it led anywhere before the quake, it doesn't now."

" _I rather suspected that would be the case,"_ Katria said. _"There's no hope for it, then. We'll have to keep to the outer path and deal with the Falmer."_

"You didn't say what you found in there," Marcus commented as he led them across another fallen pillar to the other side of the chasm.

"No, I didn't, did I?" Dante smiled urbanely. "If you were that curious, you should have come with me."

A terrible tremor shook the entire crevasse, and the two men clung to the side of the cliff that rose above them. Across the way, a piece of rock and debris the size of a dragon broke loose and crashed to the river below, just at the opening of the tunnel Dante had passed through not long before. Beads of sweat broke out on Imperial and Breton alike, and Dante gulped.

"Let's keep moving, shall we?" he invited, striving to keep his voice steady, and wordlessly, Marcus nodded.

The path wound around the shoulder of the cliff before petering out; they would need to cross another land bridge. Both men eyed the causeway with suspicion, but edged out onto it and scrambled to the other side. Further ahead, they could see a Falmer skulker and his pet chaurus. Katria had her bow out and two arrows sent off before either man could react. The Falmer and the chaurus slid off the land bridge into the churning waters below. As they drew closer to the tunnel the bridge led up to, another Falmer leaped lightly out of its hive.

" _Watch out!"_ Katria cried.

" _FUS RO DAH!"_

The _thu'um_ bounced off the walls, and the force of it blew the Falmer off the bridge, to follow his compatriots downriver.

"Was that wise?" Dante demanded. "We've already got quakes. You want to bring the mountain down on us that much quicker?"

"It's not like an avalanche, Greyshadow." Marcus brushed it aside. "My Unrelenting Force is not going to accelerate the decline of this complex."

"Let's not put that to the test, alright?" Dante grumbled.

" _So that's the ancient_ thu'um _, huh?"_ Katria mused. _"I never thought I'd see that in action. I thought the Dragonborn died out centuries ago."_

"Well, apparently the gods thought we needed another," Dante chuckled. "But we got stuck with Marcus, here, instead."

"Very funny," Marcus scowled, in a tone that clearly implied it wasn't. "If you're all done laughing at the Dragonborn, can we keep moving?"

The tunnel they entered went only a short distance before it turned abruptly to the left and began to incline once more. They were getting closer and closer to the summit of Arkngthamz. It opened into a small chamber with a Falmer hut at the rear, next to a chaurus pen, where two of the horrors skittered and clicked. Floating in the air above it was a winged chaurus hunter. To the right, the path rose along the wall to another tunnel, while a second tunnel opened on the left side, past another hive.

As they entered, a second chaurus hunter emerged from the hive, just as a Falmer warmonger and his pet chaurus rushed down the ramp on the right.

" _FAAS RU MAAR!"_

The _thu'um_ reverberated around the small chamber, but it had the desired effect. The chaurus with the warmonger turned tail and skittered back up the ramp, while the hunter closest to them disappeared down the tunnel to the left. The two chaurus still in the pen pressed themselves into the furthest corner away from the adventurers.

" _That evens the numbers a bit!"_ Katria exclaimed. _"Watch out for those hunters, though. They have a nasty sting, as well as the poison they spit."_

"And those claws and pincers will open your armor like a can-opener," Marcus said.

"I'll take care of the hunters," Dante called, heading towards the back of the cavern. "I have a ring that's proof against poison. You take care of that warmonger! And you're going to explain to me later what a 'can-opener' is."

The Falmer proved to be tougher than any Marcus had fought – and he'd fought many. This one seemed to battle with the desperate fury of one who guarded or protected something precious. He parried every blow Marcus aimed at him, and kept the dragonborn between himself and the ghostly form intent on peppering him with arrows. He snarled and gibbered, and the chaurus in the pen seemed to respond, gradually losing their fear of these intruders.

Dante suddenly found he had to avoid getting hit by their corrosive spittle, even as he attempted to kill the winged horror determined to skewer him with the stinger at the end of its abdomen. At least the chaurus couldn't get out of their pen, or he would have been swarmed.

Katria couldn't get a clear shot at the warmonger, but that didn't mean she couldn't target the chaurus in the pen. As she killed the last one, however, something struck her repeatedly from behind, and – taken by surprise and unable to defend herself – she dissipated.

" _Ughhh…"_

"Katria!" Dante cried, infuriated. He lashed out again with Mehrunes' Razor, and found a weak spot in the creature's exoskeleton. Bifurcating it, he whirled to block an attack from the second hunter that had recovered from the fear laid upon it by the Dragonborn. With an ebony blade honed to a fine edge in his off hand, and Mehrunes' Razor in his right, the Breton Guildmaster swerved, dodged and danced his way around the lower chamber, seeking a way past the striking legs and thrusting stinger.

Marcus was trading blow for parry, and riposte for counterstrike with his opponent. In spite of the fact that the Falmer was trying to kill him, he could appreciate, on one level, how many of the warmonger's attack patterns were similar to ones Gelebor had taught him, how many blocking techniques were used by the Snow Elves of long ago. It was a great pity, he felt, that he would have to kill this brave soul in order to get to their destination. He had no way to speak to or reason with him.

His distraction cost him, and the Falmer found a weak point in the dragonplate armor, where the joint of the elbow was exposed on the inside in order to flex the arm. The wicked Falmer blade made of chaurus chitin, and serrated to a sawtooth finish, scraped across the inner lining of Marcus' left arm, penetrating to the flesh underneath and laying it open.

Crying out, more from surprise and dismay at his own inattention, the Dragonborn inhaled.

" _GAAN LAH HAAS!"_

The Falmer staggered as the _thu'um_ hit him and began sapping his life's energy. His next attempt to strike Marcus wasn't as powerful, and the block with his shield fumbled. Marcus took advantage of the opening and swiftly cut the warmonger down.

"Dammitall!" he swore softly, staring at his fallen foe. Magicka flared as he healed the wound the warmonger had given him.

A crunching sound made him look around. Dante had found a way past the chaurus hunter's flurry of attacks and brought the creature down, before disappearing into the tunnel from which it had come.

"Katria?" Marcus called, dismayed. The ghost of the explorer was nowhere to be seen. "Greyshadow!" he called. "Where's Katria?"

"Gone," the Breton man called back. "One of the hunters got her. I think I know why the warmonger fought so hard, though."

Marcus entered the tunnel and found the Grey Fox up to his knees in piles of chaurus egg sacs. "I think they were guarding the nursery," he explained, gesturing around.

"Holy crap, there's a lot of these," Marcus murmured. "I know Tamsyn sometimes uses them for alchemy."

Dante nodded. "For potions of invisibility," he agreed. "I use them myself. They can also be used to boost your stamina. Used improperly, however, and they can damage your magicka and make you that much weaker to poisons."

"Know something about alchemy, do you?" Marcus quipped, not surprised in the least.

"No," Dante said urbanely, tucking some of the loose eggs into his pack. "I know a _lot_ about alchemy. I made it my business to know."

Marcus let that slide. "What do we do now, without Katria?"

"What we would have done had she not joined us, obviously," Dante said. "We go on."

"You're taking this rather calmly," Marcus frowned.

"I'm practical," Dante pointed out. "I don't let my emotions get in my way. Yes, it's tragic that she's gone. No, there's nothing we can do about it. So, we go on."

"I hope I never get as cold and cynical as you, Greyshadow," Marcus said bitterly.

"I hope you don't, either, Dragonborn," Dante said sincerely, surprising the younger man. "This world still needs dreamers and optimists like you. You're what gives the rest of us hope."

He moved past Marcus, leaving the young Imperial to ponder whether he had been insulted or complimented.

They re-emerged into the small chamber with the Falmer hut, where Dante relieved the chest inside of its contents. As they headed up the ramp to the tunnel, a mist whirled and concentrated, coalescing into the form of Katria once more.

" _Gods, I hate when that happens!"_ she muttered.

"Katria!" Marcus exclaimed with delight. "You're alive! Well…I mean…uh…" He trailed off, embarrassed.

Katria gave a wry chuckle as Dante grinned. "Want me to help you get your foot out of your mouth, Dragonborn?"

" _It's okay,"_ Katria smiled. _"I knew what he meant. I'm sorry about that back there. Sometimes the assault on my manifestation is too much to maintain. I should have warned you that could happen."_

"You're back," Dante said firmly. "That's the important thing. It's good to see you again. Shall we go on?"

" _Lead the way,"_ she invited, gesturing towards the tunnel.

There were several glowing mushrooms in here which Dante also stopped to pick. "Nothing bad at all about these," he commented, tucking them away.

"You're not going to be like Tamsyn and stop to pick every shroom and flower, are you?" Marcus teased.

"Does she do that?" Dante asked.

"All. The. Time." The Dragonborn chuckled fondly. "But I can't deny her potions are some of the best I've ever used."

" _Your wife is an alchemist, then?"_ Katria asked as they walked along.

"She's the Arch Mage of the College of Winterhold," Dante interjected, before Marcus could speak. "Really, Dragonborn, you need to flaunt your titles more. You'll never get anywhere in this world if you don't."

"I'm not trying to 'get anywhere', Greyshadow," Marcus replied. "And right now, anonymity is my best friend."

"There's a certain logic to that I can't deny," Dante agreed. "Hopefully, when this is all over, you won't have to hide who you are."

" _You're in hiding?"_ Katria asked.

"Figuratively speaking," Marcus explained. "Not everyone knows who the Dragonborn is by sight. I'm better known in Skyrim, because I live here, but the Dominion has operatives all over Tamriel, and I ran into some in High Rock a while back who knew who I was. I imagine I could probably walk down the streets of the Imperial City itself, and no one would know."

"Let's not put that theory to the test, shall we?" Dante frowned.

" _And the Dominion is after you, the Dragonborn, because they know you're trying to stop what they're doing,"_ Katria concluded, pleased at putting it all together.

"That's it in a nutshell," Marcus nodded. "That's why we need to find out if this Aetherium Forge exists, to know whether it's something the Dominion could turn against us."

" _I think we're getting closer,"_ Katria said. _"Here's where I fell."_

The tunnel opened into a massive chamber, open to the sky, that was really more of a shaft with a wide ring of packed earth and stone around the perimeter. Several scrub bushes were attempting to take root in here, as well as a few spindly pine trees. One massive timber had succumbed to the quakes, however, and had toppled over, its roots still entrenched in the path, but its broken upper trunk extended over the shaft.

" _Hey!"_ Katria exclaimed suddenly, pointing. _"There's my bow! Out there, on that log! I wondered what happened to it."_

In the dim light of the waning afternoon, they could just make out the shape of a bow on the end of the log, snagged in the upper branches. Marcus gulped. He hated heights.

"I'll get it," Dante volunteered, even as the ground rumbled again and dirt sifted down on them from above.

" _It's not worth risking your life for,"_ Katria protested. But her eyes gazed out longingly at the best bow she'd ever used in her life. Its shadow hung at her back now, an intricate masterpiece of archery equipment with a pulley system that could only have been invented by the Dwemer. No wonder it could shoot so quickly!

"I insist," Dante assured her. He boosted himself up on the fallen giant and edged out carefully towards the bow. Halfway there a jutting branch, as broken as the rest of the tree, barred his progress. Glancing down, he could see the river far below, and the pinnacle of rock where Katria's broken body still lay.

 _If you're not careful here,_ he told himself, _you'll be joining her!_

Easing around the broken branch, Dante tested hand- and footholds carefully before putting his weight on them. Two-thirds of the fallen tree still lay on the path, so he wasn't too worried about over-balancing the trunk.

The tree shifted downwards suddenly as another temblor shook the cavern, and Dante scrabbled for the broken branch as he lost his footing. He missed the branch, but caught another, thinner one jutting from the side. It bowed under his weight, putting any other branches out of his reach.

" _NO!"_

The cry came from both Marcus and Katria as the Guildmaster dangled a hundred feet above the chasm.

" _Do something!"_ Katria cried.

Marcus gulped again. Taking a deep breath, he crawled onto the trunk and began to inch his way out towards where the Breton man clung, unable to reach high enough with his other hand to pull himself up. Closing his eyes briefly and sending up a prayer to Akatosh, Marcus pulled himself forward, keeping his gaze on his companion, and trying to ignore the rush of water below. Another quake rumbled, but it was milder, and Marcus clung to the tree trunk in terror, expecting any moment to find himself plummeting downward.

But the trunk held, and he took a deep breath and began to move forward again. Soon he was close enough to lean over and reach down to the Guildmaster. Fear made him hesitate, however. What if he lost _his_ balance? What if their combined weight sent the tree over the edge?

 _Don't borrow trouble, Marcus!_ he scolded himself. _We've got enough of that as it is. Greyshadow needs you. Get to it!_

Gripping the broken branch tightly in one hand, and locking his legs around the trunk as far as he was able, Marcus gritted his teeth and leaned over, extending his right hand to Dante. Straining, he stretched as far as he could, but still fell short by several inches.

"Go on without me," Dante grunted. "I can probably hit the water from here."

"It would be like hitting stone from this distance," Marcus shot back. "Reach, dammit!"

"I _am_ reaching!" the Guildmaster gasped, as his grip slipped on the thinner branch.

Swearing under his breath, Marcus pulled back and sat up. He drew a leather strip from his belt pouch and secured it to one end of his dragonbone bow, forming a loop. Slipping his hand through the loop and gripping the end of the bow, he clutched the broken branch with the other hand and leaned over once more.

"Grab on," he ordered. "I'll pull you up."

Dante merely nodded. The bow closed the distance between the two men, and Marcus was jerked down to the trunk when the Guildmaster's full mass suddenly pulled on the Dragonborn's muscles. Straining with everything in him, Marcus used the broken branch to brace himself as he hauled Dante up far enough for the Breton man to grab onto the trunk and pull himself up the rest of the way.

Both men lay gasping for several minutes, recovering. Dante sat up and extended his hand.

"My thanks, Dragonborn," he said simply.

Marcus grinned, accepting the gesture. "Can't go losing the next Emperor, now, can we?" he murmured.

"That would be bad…for me, anyway," Dante chuckled. "Now, to get that bow."

Marcus blinked. "You're still going out there to get it?"

Dante shrugged. "Of course! I promised I would. And I always keep my promises."

Marcus shook his head in disbelief. "Okay, fine, but I'm getting off of here!" So saying, he began to inch his way back down the trunk.

Several minutes later, the Breton man rejoined them, Zephyr in hand.

" _Take good care of it for me?"_ Katria pleaded, and Dante smiled.

"How could I not?" he countered. "It's a beautiful bow. Indeed, it would have been interesting to have adventured with you. I, too, am interested in history and its artifacts."

" _I found that in the Dwemer ruin of Rkund, in the Jerall Mountains, south of the Rift,"_ Katria said. _"You can't get into that place now, though. Tremors brought the whole mountain down on top of it."_

Dante nocked an arrow and pulled, nearly dislocating his shoulder as the resistance suddenly eased. "Whoa!" he exclaimed, and Katria laughed.

" _Yeah, it took some getting used to, believe me,"_ she grinned. _"But that pulley system the Dwarves used makes it fire so much faster."_

"I will treasure this always," Dante bowed.

They followed the path that led upwards to the top of the cavern and through a short tunnel into the next part of the complex. As they passed under a squared-off arch of worked stone, they saw a grotto below with a stream rushing through on the left-hand side which disappeared into a crevice, presumably to join the river far below them. At the furthest end of the grotto, a building remained intact, surmounted by five Dwemer resonators similar to the ones they had seen earlier, but on a much larger scale. The top-most level, holding two of the resonators, was also surmounted with two large Dwarven ballistae. Above all this, a large bust of a helmeted Dwemer frowned upon those who would approach. At the base of the building, they could just see a Dwarven Centurion docked behind a bronze gate, flanked on either side by large vertical pipes with shutters of the sort that would allow Dwemer Spheres to exit. At the far ends were two additional gates that seemed to lead deeper into the interior of the structure.

"Wow!" Marcus exclaimed. "That's pretty impressive!"

The ground rumbled again, but the grotto was open to the sky above, and Marcus was far less worried about something coming down on their heads. They still proceeded with caution down the switchback trail that led to the grotto floor, though Marcus' Aura Whisper determined the Falmer hives that dotted the sides of the cliffs were abandoned. Along the banks of the stream they could see the remains of a toppled tower, and behind it on the opposite side, and intact tower still clung to the side of the cavern, now permanently cut off from the rest of the complex. At one bend of the trail, what might have once been a temple or some other kind of outbuilding was now nothing more than a debris-filled doorway. What always mystified Marcus, however, were the fixtures the Dwarves used for illumination. In nearly every Dwemer ruin he'd ever been in – and he'd been in quite a few – these fixtures reminded him of gas lights from his own world. And here, they still worked.

As they descended the last part of the trail, Katria suddenly stopped.

" _Hold up,"_ she called. _"We…we need to talk."_

"Something on your mind, Katria?" Marcus asked kindly.

" _Do you know what this is?"_ she asked them, gesturing at the building at the far end of the grotto. Both men silently shook their heads. _"It's a lock,"_ she explained. _"A 'Tonal Lock.' Simple, and very, very deadly."_ She pointed to the top of the building. _"See those Resonators up there? Strike them in the right order, and the doors should open. Get it wrong, and…well, you've seen what happened when I tried it."_

Something clicked in his mind, and Marcus said, "You mean, the earthquakes?"

" _Yeah,"_ Katria said sourly. _"I thought I was prepared for anything. How can you prepare for a damned earthquake? And that was just one trap! Look around. Who knows what else this thing is capable of?"_

The two men did indeed 'look around.' The ground in front of the building was littered with the bones of previous adventurers who had tried their luck pursuing the legend. One corpse was fairly recent. All had been shot through by a fusillade of dwarven arrows, launched from somewhere near the top of the complex. As they moved closer, Marcus noticed a skeleton to their left impaled by a ballista bolt the thickness of a small tree. The remains of a dwarven sphere lay to their other side, confirming the purpose of the shuttered pipes. Dante looked at Marcus.

"How good are you with Dwarven puzzles?"

"I guess we'll find out," Marcus shrugged. "Any advice, Katria?"

" _Hmm…well,"_ she mused, _"you can pick up where I left off. My notes should still be in my journal, if you can read it."_

Dante dug the journal out of his pack and flipped through it. Despite how long it had languished in a damp cavern, it was still surprisingly legible. Towards the front of the book was a well-rendered map of Skyrim drawn by Katria. There were five places of interest she had marked on the map, Arkngthamz being the first.

"'Main research center'," Dante read aloud.

" _Yes,"_ Katria said. _"From some of the other scrolls and tomes I found in Cyrodiil, Morrowind and High Rock, this place – Arkngthamz – seemed to be where the Dwarves did their research on where to find Aetherium, what its properties were, and how to store it. All that is lost, now, since the quake. Very little of the undercity survived, and what's left has been taken over by the Falmer."_

Dante continued to look through the journal, with Marcus peering over his shoulder. As he flipped over the last page, they saw a very accurate representation of the five tonal resonators perched above their heads on the façade of the building. The iconic helmeted visage of a Dwemer glared at them from across the ages.

"You were quite the artist," Dante complimented Katria.

" _I dabbled,"_ she demurred. _"I just needed to be accurate enough for me."_

"This doesn't tell us very much, though," Marcus observed. "It would seem you set off a number of traps before…" He broke off delicately.

" _Before I died, Marcus,"_ she nodded. _"It's alright. You can say it. I'm used to it by now. But you're right,"_ she continued. _"You can see which ones I tried first, setting off a hail of arrows each time. When I got that one right, I tried for the second one, got it wrong, and a sphere came for me."_ She gestured to the broken automaton to their right. _"When I got number two wrong the second time, I lured the sphere to the river and killed it there. I assume it got washed away, eventually."_

"I assume when you got number three wrong…the earthquake?" Dante surmised.

Katria nodded. _"I know it's not much help,"_ she apologized. _"Maybe one of your predecessors has something you can use?"_ She gestured to the skeletons and the body lying on the ground in front of the building.

Marcus walked over to the body to examine it. It seemed fairly recent, as it had not yet begun to decompose much. The skeletons, he knew, wouldn't have much of anything on them at all. They had been dead too long. Falmer had most likely looted them soon after they died, and skeevers, chaurus and other vermin had undoubtedly gorged themselves on the remaining flesh.

The young man looked to have been an Imperial in his early twenties, and Marcus felt a jolt of empathy. He himself had started his new life in Skyrim as a young Imperial of similar age. Hopefully, this young man's life had not been for nothing. Rummaging in the man's belt pouch, he found a bit of charcoal and a scrap of paper. Unfolding the paper, he saw it contained only smudges and two numbers: a two and a three.

"This doesn't tell us very much, either," he told the others, showing them the paper, "but it looks like our friend, here, successfully found the third lock in the series."

"Then we'll have to figure out the last two on our own," Dante nodded. He hefted Zephyr and plucked some Dwarven arrows out of the ground.

" _What do you need those for?"_ Katria asked. _"Don't you have arrows?"_

"I'm not trying to kill something right now," Dante reasoned. "My arrows are made of ebony. I don't want to waste them on something like this."

"That makes sense," Marcus agreed. "Go for it, Greyshadow," he encouraged. "Bottom left, bottom right, then top left. We know that much."

Dante took careful aim with Zephyr. An abstract part of his mind felt it was only fitting and appropriate to use Katria's bow to complete the puzzle, after all she had been through to get this far. As he struck each tonal resonator, it made a deep gonging sound, but raised in pitch each time. The eyes on the Dwemer visage lit up, and steam escaped from its nose. Resonators spun to the top of their shafts, and Dwemer lights illuminated each lock, indicating it had been opened.

" _That's it!"_ Katria urged. _"Keep going!"_

Another quake rumbled, and Dante waited for it to subside before taking his next shot.

"Now for number four," he murmured. _Bottom center, or top right?_ he mused.

"The Dwemer were known for their symmetry," Marcus offered. "I say hit the one on the top right."

"I'm inclined to agree with you, Dragonborn," Dante nodded.

"For once," Marcus quipped. Dante grinned, and sent the arrow flying. It hit the resonator, which spun to the top, setting off the gong and lighting up the lock. It was the work of a few seconds to hit the one on the bottom, at the center, opening the lock, and subsequently the doors on either side.

" _You've got it!"_ Katria crowed. She ran for the opened gate to the left, and the two men followed.

"I'm certainly glad we didn't have to fight that Centurion," Dante muttered.

"You and me, both," Marcus agreed.

Inside the building, the hallway behind the Centurion ran parallel to the front of the building, with a small alcove tucked behind the giant automaton. In the alcove, resting on a small pedestal between two small wall chests, and in front of a larger, table-sized one, sat a curious piece of glowing blue… _something…_ semi-circular in shape and resembling a sort of half-wheel that had been broken in two.

" _So, this is it,"_ Katria breathed.

"What is this?" Dante asked, picking it up to look at it more closely.

" _Let me see that,"_ Katria asked, and he held it up for her examination. _"Huh…"_ she marveled. _"Look, on the edge here,"_ she pointed out. _"This has been cut. Precisely cut. If you had another piece, about the same size, it would…it would snap right in!"_

"And make a complete piece," Marcus nodded.

"What does that mean?" Dante asked. "A complete piece of what?"

" _I saw a drawing of this once,"_ Katria explained, getting excited. _"This shard…it's…it's part of a key! A key made of pure Aetherium! The Key to the Forge!"_

"So…what now?" Marcus asked. "Half a key isn't going to do us much good."

" _No, of course not,"_ Katria agreed. _"We have to find the other pieces. There should be…hmm…three more. One for each of the four cities that worked on the Forge."_

"Those places you marked on your map!" he realized.

" _Exactly! That's where we should start."_

"You had five places marked on your map," Dante pointed out.

" _That's right,"_ Katria nodded. _"I believe the fifth site might be the Forge itself. I had a lead on that too."_ She sighed, but it was one of satisfaction. _"There's still so much to do,"_ she said. _"I'm going to head out and start tracking things down. We'll meet again, I'm sure of it!"_

"You're leaving us?" Dante asked, surprised. He hadn't expected that.

Katria smiled. _"For the first time in a long while I think I –_ we _– may actually be able to do this. And I…I owe it all to you two! Thank you!"_ She bowed to them both and vanished in a puff of ether.

The two men stood in sober reflection for several minutes. Then Dante pulled himself out of his reverie and looted the chests. The shelves to either side of the alcove held only bits of Dwemer parts and ingots.

"Did you want any of these things, Dragonborn?" Dante asked, remembering his manners.

"No," the Dragonborn replied. "I don't need whatever you found. I'm doing alright. I'm thinking about these locations Katria marked on her map."

"What about them?"

"Well, this one here, further north in the Reach," he pointed out. "In fact, it's probably in Haafingar at that distance. She wrote that it was named 'Bthar-zel, not Bthardamz.' I don't remember any other Dwemer ruins north of Bthardamz. I'll have to ask Madanach what he knows about the area."

He flipped through the journal again. "And this other one here, that she didn't name, but said it was a 'storage facility for raw Aetherium.' I know for a fact that's near Mzulft, where some of our troops are training. I can talk to Serana when we get there. If anyone has found anything like that—" he pointed to the piece of the Key still in the Guildmaster's hand, "—Serana will know about it."

"Let's get out of here, then," Dante advised. "Hopefully there won't be any more Falmer to get in our way."

"I really don't want to trek back the way we came," Marcus frowned.

"Do you know of any other way to get out of a ruin?" Dante queried.

"Well," Marcus hedged. "It's been my experience in these matters that there's usually a back way out, close to the entrance, and usually hidden by a secret door, or a ledge above the entrance you can just jump down from, but can't climb up. It was that way in Nchuand-Zel, when I cleared it of Falmer so Calcelmo could get back to work."

"Alright, I'm game," Dante said agreeably. "Lead on. Let's see if there's a fast way out of here."

It took some thorough exploration of the cavern. The building's façade may have been intact, and the alcove where they found the shard of Aetherium, but the rest of the facility was buried under tons of rock, with no way in. They found a tunnel, eventually, on the other side of the river, which led them to an overlook of the main chasm where they had first met Katria. There was no way down except to jump.

"I should be used to getting wet by now," Dante said sourly.

"I won't need to get wet," Marcus said smugly. _"FEIM ZII GRON!"_

Instantly, the Dragonborn became transparent, as Katria had been, and he leaped off the overlook, landing heavily, but without injury, on the ledge below and to the left, where they had come in. A fall from that distance would cause the Guildmaster serious injury, or even death. Grumbling to himself, he leaped into the churning river below and allowed it to carry him to the left bank, where he was able to clamber up another fallen pillar leaning against the pinnacle of rock where Katria's body still lay. Perhaps it was his imagination, but a peaceful expression seemed to lay over the young woman's face, even in death.

He hurried up the other pillar to the upper level where Marcus waited for him, wringing out his Nightingale armor as he did so.

"Smart ass," he accused.

"Dragonborn," Marcus reminded him with a grin on his face.

They were almost to the main entrance, with its geometrically-carved bronze doors, when Marcus held up a hand.

"Notice that?" he asked, looking around.

Dante caught on immediately. "The quakes have stopped," he observed. "Unlocking the resonators in the right order must have reset everything."

"I can't even imagine the power the Dwemer must have had," Marcus commented, "if they were able to cause tremors under their entire city to protect their secrets."

"Maybe," Dante said gravely, "we should be lucky they aren't still around!"

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Next up we head back to Winterhold…or at least, the older, sunken part of Winterhold…and see what Tamsyn and Azura have discovered. Marcus and Dante track down the other pieces of their particular puzzle, and encounter some old enemies along the way._

 _*Song "Friends in Low Places" by Dewayne Blackwell and Earl Budd Lee, performed by Garth Brooks. All copyrights remain with Universal Music.]_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 4**

The interior of the Temple was dimly lit with a scattering of mage lights, but Azura and Tamsyn didn't need much illumination to see what had transpired here, decades ago. The mummified remains of dozens of old Winterhold's citizens lay between the pews. At the far end of the main sanctuary they could see the altar, an alcove to the right which contained a pipe organ – very rare in Skyrim – labeled _Stroti & Co., _and the chancel, which was gated off. To the left was another alcove behind a decorative screen, which concealed bookshelves filled with texts, now ruined beyond any hope of perusing. Water dripped steadily from somewhere, and the pervading sense of tons of rock and ocean overhead outside filled the two women with restless dread.

"I don't think I could rest easy in here," Azura whispered.

"Nor I," Tamsyn agreed. "Still, let's look around. This would most likely have been the last place the people would have come to, to seek refuge from the storms." She shuddered. "I can't imagine the terror they must have felt, not knowing what was happening."

As they approached the chancel, they could see beyond its gates several smaller statues to the Divines, as well as a large bowl on a pedestal, still filled with water – a pensieve.

Tamsyn tugged on the gates. "Locked," she declared. "Unless we find a key, we can't access it."

"Why would you want to?" Azura asked.

"I thought I could use the pensieve," Tamsyn said. "It might help us figure out what happened here."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Azura worried. "Who knows what influences have been working on it since the Collapse?"

"Which is precisely why I want to use it," Tamsyn stated. "Don't worry, I can protect myself."

Azura knew she wouldn't be able to convince the Arch Mage otherwise, so she said nothing, but assisted Tamsyn in searching the chantry for any clues. On a shelf in the altar lectern, she found a selection of books, most of which she had already read. But the collection of titles concerned her: _Trials of St. Alessia, Aedra and Daedra, The Book of Daedra, Varieties of Daedra, The Monomyth, A Children's Anuad,_ and _The Amulet of Kings._ Buried under the pile was a slim journal. Azura quickly scanned through it before calling Tamsyn over, who had been rummaging through some ruined books on another shelf.

"What have you found?" the Arch-Mage asked.

"Look at these books here," Azura said. "They're an unusual assortment for a Temple devoted to the Aedra. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were going through a crisis of faith."

"With all that was going on at the time," Tamsyn mused, "I wouldn't have blamed them. What have you got there?"

"A journal," Azura replied. "I think it was written by the Priest here."

"What does it say?" the Breton mage asked.

"It seems to have started in the middle of the cataclysm," Azura noted, checking the front of the slim volume. "The priest at the time, Elder Vindar, states that his congregation had been dwindling, that one of the people got caught smuggling skooma into the city and had to be hanged, and…let's see here…" She flipped through several more pages. "The skooma was brought here to the Temple," she said, then paused, reading. "Oh, dear…"

"What?" Tamsyn asked. "What's wrong?"

"Elder Vindar began putting skooma in the sacrament," Azura told her. "He was drugging the people of Winterhold!"

"I can't believe that!" Tamsyn exclaimed. "A priest? Deliberately drugging his congregation? Why would he do that?"

"He justifies it by claiming he's getting rid of the skooma and helping the people cope with the ongoing tragedy. He says the College was doing nothing to help Winterhold, so he did his part by slipping them a bit of skooma."

Tamsyn shook her head. "Stupid, misguided people!" she muttered. "From what I've heard, the mages were working long hours just to keep the College from sliding into the sea! There are records in the Arcaneum of shipwrecked sailors rescued and brought to the College for healing and protection."

"Yes," Azura said. "Elder Vindar mentions that here, briefly. He also says that diseases were running rampant in the streets."

"That's to be expected," Tamsyn allowed. "Any time you have natural disasters, the risk of disease and infection goes way up. Is that all? Did Elder Vindar say anything at all about a sload?"

Azura flipped through the rest of the journal. "Nothing I can see. The last couple of entries talk about a gigantic wave that swept over Winterhold, and how he could see nothing in 'Aevar's Pensieve.' I assume that's it right there," she added, gesturing to the bowl on the pedestal behind the gate.

Tamsyn took the book to read for herself.

 _"Loredas, 6_ _th_ _Rain's Hand, 4E 122 – The gods have forsaken us on this day. Come midday the storm seemed to have all but passed; the rain ceased, the thunder quieted, and the Sea of Ghosts receded. Only it continued to recede until the Elven shipwreck was left high and dry._

 _"Seagulls flocked south, and several hounds burst from their kennels and fled. Over the horizon, a wall of water twice the height of the gates and half as high as Aevar's Mount swept the city and crashed against the coast."_

"Where's Aevar's Mount?" Tamsyn asked, puzzled. She'd never heard of that landmark before.

"We're…um…we're standing on it," Azura said. "Or what's left of it. Aevar's Mount was where the Temple once stood."

"Oh," Tamsyn said quietly, taking that in. She knew the College still towered over their heads, outside the cavern. That the Temple of the Gods once stood on a peak higher than – or at least as high as – the College of Winterhold, and that the tsunami that had hit the town was nearly half as high as that was sobering indeed. No wonder the people of Winterhold felt the end times had come. She almost couldn't blame them for using skooma to cope.

 _"The walls of the harbor district that had stood for a thousand years were swept away like leaves in the wind. The whole of Nirn shuddered, and the entire Palace slid into the sea! Then the front face of the Negua Glacier broke free and scraped down Aevar's Mount, stopping only yards from the Temple roof. The second-era masonry has withstood worse, but the bell tower has been crushed, making it impossible to signal our location! …Aevar's Pensieve has now completely darkened…"_

The rest of the journal described how Elder Vindar took it upon himself to render a final solution to their desperate plight. Rather than wait for starvation or worse, he emptied the last of the skooma into the sacramental thurible and administered it to his small congregation, allowing them to drift into a deep, unnatural sleep from which they would never awaken.

Tamsyn sighed. She didn't blame him for what he'd done. Desperate situations called for desperate measures, and Elder Vindar did what he felt he had to do, given the circumstances. Buried, sealed off from any hope of rescue, it would only have been a matter of time before the remaining citizens would have starved to death, gone mad, or turned to cannibalism to survive. Even that nightmarish course of action would have sustained them only for a short while, before none were left. She shuddered as she tucked the journal in her backpack.

A glint of metal on the lectern caught her eye. A small brass key lay there, gleaming in the Magelight.

"I wonder if that opens the pensieve?" she said as she took it.

"I still don't think it's a good idea to disturb the dead past," Azura warned. "If Elder Vindar couldn't discover the reason for the cataclysm, maybe we aren't meant to know."

"Azura," Tamsyn said with some exasperation, "I _have_ to know! Was this some natural occurrence, perhaps related to the explosion of Red Mountain, like Savos Aren thought? Or was there something more sinister, like the sload, at work here? The answer might very well exonerate the College once and for all. I have to find out! It's part of the reason we're down here at all!"

Azura looked decidedly unhappy. "Alright," she sighed finally. "Go ahead and look. Just be careful. I'll watch your back out here."

Tamsyn nodded. She unlocked the gate and stepped into the cage with the pensieve, taking a deep breath. She closed her eyes, and leaned over the bowl, allowing the vapors to fill her mind.

 _Storm. Water. Destruction. A dragon. Kahvozein. A lich. Beinaarkh. Bound together. Vengeance. Vengeance against Winterhold. Death!_

A blast of psychic force hit Tamsyn, knocking her to the ground. She lay there stunned, dimly aware of Azura's shriek of dismay, and the sounds of destruction magic going off. Under it all, a guttural voice gloated.

 _Rotmindol joor. Hi nis vuth dii daal!_ Puny mortal. You cannot stop my return!

Something was hitting her, and the pain was excruciating, but she could do nothing to stop it. Then there was a thudding noise, and the pain ceased. Azura was standing over her like an Amazon warrior, keeping her from harm, wielding Sting in one hand and casting a turning spell in the other.

Groggily, Tamsyn got to her feet. The paralysis was wearing off, but she was bleeding from a couple of severe wounds. She tried to focus, to cast a healing spell, but the pain and lingering paralysis effect made it difficult to concentrate. She could see, however, that every draugr in the Temple was now on its feet, attacking them. In point of fact, not _all_ of them were on their feet. The ones which were completely swaddled in their linen wraps were still animated, but were inch-worming their way towards the two women.

Azura saw this and shrieked again. "Nope! Nope! _NOPE!"_ she cried, leaping lightly to the back of the nearest pew. Balancing there, she shot the closest draugr with a bolt of lightning, which staggered it only slightly. Another bolt took it out, but two more were coming. Azura leaped to the next pew, and the next, to the back of the Temple, leading the remaining ambulatory draugr away from Tamsyn, who shook her head to clear it. The mummified draugr were still working their way towards her, and if she had been as sure-footed as Azura, she might have leaped to the back of a pew herself. As it was, she summoned the magicka within her and threw down a fire rune in their path. Unable to avoid it, the mummies shuffled onto the rune and ignited.

Azura had reached the end of the row of pews with no place left to go. Another draugr fell to her shock-enhanced blade, but there were more coming. Balancing on the back of the pew wasn't difficult for her, but it wasn't the ideal location from which to battle. The draugr had backed her into a corner, and she knew Tamsyn had at least as many to worry about at the front of the Temple. Glancing upwards, she noticed a balcony overhead, free of draugr. Making a quick decision, she threw a firebolt at the closest draugr and sheathed Sting, then made a leap for the balcony.

It was somewhat intact, though the glacial wall had pushed in the side that would have had the stairs leading up to this part of the Temple. There was no way the draugr could reach her from here, and she summoned a Bound Bow. Targeting the mummified draugr still relentlessly pushing towards Tamsyn, in spite of the fire runes she kept throwing down, Azura picked them off one by one, giving the Arch-Mage a chance to cast something with a bit more power against the undead.

Tamsyn didn't disappoint. Gesturing with both hands, she slammed down another Guardian Circle. An expression of relief washed over her face as the spell held the draugr at bay while she healed within the Circle. On the balcony above, Azura continued to snipe the remaining draugr, until once more it was silent within the Temple. Tamsyn let the spell dissipate as Azura dropping lightly down from her position.

"That was nasty," Tamsyn commented ruefully. "I didn't expect crawling mummies!"

Azura shuddered. "They gave me the…what was that phrase you use?"

"Heebie-jeebies?" Tamsyn chuckled.

"Yeah, that," Azura nodded. She shuddered again. "What did you see in the pensieve? Did it show you where the sload is?"

"No," Tamsyn said, "but I think the sload is the least of our worries."

"Oh?"

"The sload didn't get here on its own," Tamsyn said. "I think that necromancer, Zenosha, is partly responsible for bringing it here to the College, and the sload was responsible for opening all the Oblivion gates."

"But…?" Azura prompted. She knew Tamsyn well enough by now to know there was more.

"But I think whatever took Winterhold down goes back a lot farther." She told the Bosmer mage what she'd seen in the pensieve. Azura turned it over in her mind.

"You think the sload isn't down here, then?" Azura asked. Tamsyn shook her head.

"No, and I don't think it's even still on campus grounds," Tamsyn replied. "We cleared the Midden and never found it. I think as soon as we shut down the two gates, it took off. It had succeeded in doing its job to distract us away from whatever else the Dominion is doing."

"So now we need to find a way out of here," Azura sighed. "We can't get out the way we came in."

"No," Tamsyn agreed. "And we need to find out who this Beinaarkh was, and keep him from coming back."

"I've heard the name Kahvozein before…" Azura mused, frowning in concentration.

"You should have," Tamsyn chuckled. "You used his Fang to complete your Alteration Master trials."

Azura's eyes widened. "That's right!" she exclaimed. "Though, to be fair, a dagger is hardly a dragon's tooth. And I was already a Master of Alteration. I just needed to make it official for College records."

"No argument here," Tamsyn said. "There's a trap door in the corner over there," she pointed out. "Let's see if that leads anywhere important. If not, we can head back down to the plaza and look for a way out of here."

The trap door revealed a ladder leading down into some sort of basement or crypt area. There was a chest down here, as well as two sarcophagi standing on their ends, one on each side of the room. Azura eyed the caskets warily.

Between them, and next to the chest, was a sort of altar table with a canopic jar of the kind Tamsyn remembered seeing in Egyptian displays in museums. In front of the jar was a piece of parchment. She picked it up and read it aloud.

" _Blood of the traitor, Beinaarkh, unwillingly taken,"_ she relayed to her companion. _"Seat of the power that broke his head. Separate forever so bones lie dead, and blue wings ne'er again glide. Good friend, for Ysmir's sake, abide, else burn like the souls who worshipped pride!'"_

"Well, that's fairly clear," Azura said drily. "This jar holds Beinaarkh's blood, the 'seat of his power.'"

Tamsyn nodded. "I agree," she said. "I read somewhere in one of the tomes in the Arcaneum that the ancient Dragon Priests attempted to become liches by draining their own blood, and then having it restored to them after death to regain their power and become undead. It's what Hevnorak attempted to do, from his temple at Valthume."

"So that fact that this is here," Azura surmised, "means that he was going to have his minions make him a powerful lich."

"Yes, but this line here, _'separate forever so bones lie dead,'_ would seem to indicate the ritual may have been interrupted."

"And 'broke his head' must mean he went mad with power," Azura murmured. "What do you think is meant by 'blue wings ne'er again glide'? Could that mean Kahvozein?"

"I'm sure of it," Tamsyn agreed. "Miraak told me that each of the Temples were dedicated to a specific dragon. It would appear that in this case, Beinaarkh's dragon lord was Kahvozein, and he must have been a blue dragon. I've never seen one of those, and I've seen a lot of dragons!"

"Should we leave that jar here, then?" Azura worried. "What if this Zenosha person finds a way down here? Or she might send another sload to fetch it for her, and try to bring Beinaarkh back."

Tamsyn debated this for a moment. "We should take it with us," she said finally. "We can dump it out into the Sea of Ghosts, once we get outside. Then no one will be able to raise Beinaarkh again."

Azura nodded and lifted the canopic jar off its pedestal.

With a _boom!_ the two sarcophagi burst open, and two draugr stepped out. The scourge and the wight both readied one-handed weapons, but attacked with frost spells. Azura whipped Dukaan off her belt and slipped it into place while firing off a Thunderbolt in her off hand. Tamsyn dual-cast Incinerate at the other draugr, and before long all was silent again.

"I'm glad those weren't Deathlords!" Azura breathed.

The two women looted the chest of its contents, packed everything away and headed back up the ladder and out of the Temple, to make their way back down the stairs to the plaza level below, in search of a way out of the ruins. An archway at the bottom of the stairs opened onto a corridor which led from the curtain wall back towards Aevar's Mount, where it ended in an iron door set into the wall. This opened into a small chamber which looked to be a sort of preparation area for the newly dead. A brazier blazed in front of them, and three small wooden tables were scattered about, with iron candleholders resting upon them. The candles were not lit, but the brazier provided both light and some welcome warmth in the chilly dampness of the ruined city.

To their right was another small chamber with crypts niched into the walls between two iron doors, both of which led into burial chambers filled with more niches and more lit braziers.

"Who lights these things?" Azura wondered.

"Probably the draugr," Tamsyn replied. "They're still serving the dragon priests, even after death."

There was nothing of interest in either chamber, and no other way forward, so the two mages returned to the outer room and surveyed the other side. A stairway led down to a landing; a small chamber opened to the left with a broken altar table inside, and a dead-end halted any progress straight ahead. To the right, more stairs led down to a wooden door.

As soon as they opened it, both women crouched, for they could both see a draugr resting in one of the crypts that didn't look as dead as it should be. Silently, Tamsyn fired off a Detect Death spell, and gave a low, audible gasp at the number of figures it illuminated.

"How many?" Azura whispered.

"At least half a dozen of them real close," Tamsyn murmured back. "More of them beyond that."

Azura gulped. "Good thing that chest had potions," she quipped nervously.

"I think we need to do something a bit different, here," Tamsyn said, silently conjuring a bow made out of magicka. "There's one just around the corner to the right. I don't want to alert it too soon."

"Are you any good with that?" Azura asked, curiously. She couldn't remember ever seeing the Arch-Mage shoot a bow.

Tamsyn gave a low chuckle. "I mastered the bow before I mastered any school of magic," she replied. She pulled the bowstring back, which instantly filled with an arrow made of the same magicka, took careful aim, and let it fly. It sank into the draugr lying in the niche, up to its aethereal feathers. The draugr coughed once, shuddered and lay still.

Both women paused and listened carefully for any sign that other enemies had been alerted, but all was quiet.

"This may be how we'll have to get through this section," Azura nodded, silently summoning her own Bound Bow.

For the next quarter hour, they slipped carefully down the twisting, winding corridor, carefully picking off any draugr that looked as though they might rise like Lazarus from their crypts. At one point, Tamsyn pulled Azura back sharply just before the Bosmer girl would have stepped on an embedded trigger plate in the floor, which would have caused a spiked gate to slam into them both.

"Ow!" Azura complained, rubbing her shoulder. "I wouldn't have set it off, Tamsyn! I know how to step on trigger plates!"

"Sorry," Tamsyn apologized. "I didn't know. I saw it, and just reacted."

"Well," Azura relented. "I'm glad you reacted. Thanks anyway." She would have continued on, but again, Tamsyn caught her arm and pulled back.

"Hold up," she warned. "There's something really huge up ahead. I'm getting a really big blip on the radar, and it's not from the draugr in that sarcophagus down there."

"A what on the what?" Azura frowned, puzzled at the terminology.

"I'll explain that one later," Tamsyn promised. "I don't know what's in the next chamber, but whatever it is, it's gigantic!"

"Could it be Kahvozein?"

Tamsyn snorted. "If this Beinaarkh person has somehow managed to stuff a dragon into this tomb, I'll be really impressed! Besides, what I saw isn't quite _that_ big!"

"It could be a little dragon," Azura pointed out loftily, and Tamsyn just shook her head in amusement.

The two women kept spells at the ready as they moved forward. As expected, the casket at the end of the corridor burst open upon their approach, and a Draugr Deathlord stepped down.

 _"Qiilaan us dilon!"_ the Deathlord growled, advancing towards the Arch-Mage. _Bow before the Dead!_

" _Zu'u dreh ni qiilaan wah atumei nahlii!"_ Tamsyn shot back scornfully. _I do not bow to lesser beings!_

" _Ruz dir nu ko maar, mal lir,"_ the Deathlord sneered, raising his ebony greatsword. _Then die now in terror, little worm!_

Tamsyn threw up the strongest ward she knew, and the greatsword screeched futilely against it. The force with which it struck, however, pushed her back several feet against the wall of the corridor. Azura drew Grave and Sting and began harrying the draugr from its other side, attempting to work around behind its back.

" _FO KRAH DIIN!"_ the Deathlord bellowed, sending out a frosty cloud of frigid ice and snow. Tamsyn's ward held, but the temperature in the tomb plummeted. Quickly she made a gesture with her free hand and wrapped herself in flames. The Deathlord, who had been about to close in on her, suddenly hesitated.

"You need a Tic-Tac in the worst way," Tamsyn mocked, knowing the undead wouldn't understand her. As the Deathlord inhaled to Shout again, Tamsyn hit him with Incinerate. Short of using both hands to cast a Fire Storm – which would have been disastrous in such a small area, especially for Azura – it was the strongest fire spell she knew. The Deathlord staggered backwards from the force of the blow, and somewhere in the depths of its baleful blue glare, there was a hint of genuine fear. Swiftly it bashed the Arch Mage to one side and disappeared back down the corridor from which the two mages had come. They heard, rather than saw, the spiked gate crash as it went around the corner. Azura grinned.

"Think his own trap got him?"

Tamsyn chuckled tiredly. "We should probably check," she shrugged. "I don't like having an enemy behind me."

At the base of the wooden door, through which they had entered, they found the body of the draugr, and Azura looted the ebony greatsword from its body.

"I'm not going to be able to carry very much more," she said ruefully. "Unless I shrink a few more things down."

"That greatsword _would_ make a very cool letter-opener," Tamsyn giggled.

They worked their way through the next passage, which only went a short way before opening into a larger chamber, and both women could see what had been the "blip" on Tamsyn's "radar."

It was a draugr, but it was the largest either had seen. It was as though someone had taken the time to embalm and mummify a giant. It had heard the fighting, but could not join in, due to the fact that the room was a two-story chamber, and it was too large to get up the stairs and through the corridor to reach them. Azura noticed immediately that the ledge on which they stood only extended along this side of the chamber that had a large, iron-barred trap door in the floor.

"A giant draugr?" Azura gaped. "How is that even possible?"

"I don't know," Tamsyn replied, shaking her head, "but _don't let him hit you!"_

As intimidating as the giant draugr was, both women realized immediately that the easiest way to fight it was with fire spells and ranged weapons from the safety of the second-floor ledge. It couldn't reach them, and couldn't avoid their area of effect spells. It soon succumbed to the onslaught, and the only thing left in the room was the unpleasant scent of charred draugr.

They opened the trap door and hurried down the spiral staircase and through the iron door at the bottom.

* * *

"Let's have another look at that journal again," Marcus said, then sent out his Aura Whisper. There was nothing in the immediate area except wildlife, and some mysterious blobs in the direction of the old dragon mound to the northeast that looked more like smudges than actual life forms.

Dante pulled the journal out of his belt pouch and flipped it open to the map of Skyrim Katria had drawn.

"She's put a number two next to this spot up here near the Skyrim-High Rock border," Dante noted. "You said Bthardamz is in that general vicinity?"

"Yeah," Marcus confirmed. "I've only been there a couple of times myself, and a couple more times to Druadach Redoubt, which is a bit further east from there, so I'm not real familiar with the area. Madanach might know exactly where this place might be, though."

"He's the Reach King I keep hearing about, right?" Dante asked, as they headed down the path to the road which would take them to Dushnik Yal.

"That's right."

"And you want to cede their lands back to them," Dante pressed.

"I think they got a raw deal," Marcus frowned. "Why? Are you against the idea?"

"Let's just say I haven't formulated an opinion on the matter yet, and leave it at that," Dante said smoothly. "Dividing up Skyrim so soon after her Civil War would be playing right into Dominion hands."

"In point of fact," Marcus said tersely, "it's not likely that will happen until _after_ the next Great War with the Dominion. We need the Reachfolk on our side, and promising their lands back to them as a reward for their service seems a small price to pay."

"Perhaps," Dante mused. "But you're not the one paying that bill."

Marcus said nothing, but ground his teeth silently. Most of the time, the Breton Guildmaster was an amiable, if somewhat questionable traveling companion. At other times, however, he seemed to delight in pointing out the Dragonborn's inexperience in political matters, and naivety in dealing with people in general.

The attack came swiftly, and caught both men unaware. There was a bright flash of green light, and Marcus found he could not move a muscle to save himself. There was a flurry of activity around him, but he couldn't make his eyes move towards the sounds he was hearing, to understand what was happening. The voices, however, were alarming enough.

"What happened to the other one? I was sure I hit both of them!"

Thalmor! In hindsight, Marcus realized they must have been lying in wait for Dante and him to emerge from Arkngthamz. That must have been the smudged blobs he'd seen with his Aura Whisper. Somehow, the Dominion mages must have figured out how to hide their life energies from him, albeit imperfectly. He should have been paying closer attention! At the very least, he should have mentioned it to Greyshadow. Savagely he cursed himself in his mind. Perhaps he deserved some of the Guildmaster's criticisms after all.

There were sounds of searching and frustrated accusations around him, and the gist of it was that they had caught him, but somehow Greyshadow had escaped. Marcus felt some small measure of relief. If Greyshadow had escaped, there was a chance he might be able to free the Dragonborn, if an opportunity presented itself. All he could do was wait and hope.

In a cluster of rocks and scrub bushes, Dante hid, able to see and hear everything going on below him. Once a Justiciar came too close to where he crouched, and it was tempting to take the woman out right there and then. But doing so would only put the Dragonborn at risk. The Thalmor were not above sacrificing one prisoner to draw out another. As it was, if they felt he had escaped, they might be satisfied with just having captured the Dragonborn, and return to whatever base of operations they had in this area. He was thankful he still held on to the piece of Aetherium they had found in the Dwemer ruin.

The Thalmor, having finally given up on finding him, were trussing up the Dragonborn. Two of the stronger male guards hefted him over their shoulder, grunting at the weight. Marcus had been wearing his dragonplate armor, after all. Dante waited several minutes, quietly casting Detect Life – which he had learned from Tamsyn a couple of years previous – to make sure there were no other stragglers in the area just waiting for him to show up again. He followed behind the last of the Thalmor party at a respectable distance, and noticed they turned southwest before reaching Dushnik Yal, heading into a gap between the shoulders of two mountain ridges.

They never stopped as they approached the solid wall of rock, but vanished into it, and Dante's eyes widened. No stranger to Illusion magic – he was, in fact, a Master of the School of Illusion – Dante quickly realized the wall was a hidden entrance into a Thalmor enclave. He had no idea what might be on the other side of that illusory wall, but he couldn't let the Justiciars get too far ahead with the Dragonborn as their prisoner.

Movement from the tail of his eye made him whip his head around to see a lone figure in monk's robes walking up the road to Dushnik Yal, a long, sinuous, striped tail swaying lazily behind him. Dante's heart leaped with hope, and he covered the distance quickly back down to the Khajiit traveling the roads of Skyrim alone.

"M'aiq!" he exclaimed delightedly. "M'aiq, you old seven times a sinner! Am I glad to see you!"

"M'aiq wishes you well, Grey Fox," the cat replied, grinning. "And he would remind you of your own questionable paternity."

"I need your help, M'aiq," Dante said bluntly. "There's no time to lose. Will you come with me?"

"M'aiq would rather not," the Khajiit frowned, "but he reminds himself of the debt of gratitude he owes to the Guildmaster. Though he wonders what the Guildmaster is doing in Skyrim."

"That's a long story," Dante insisted urgently, "and I don't have time to get into that right now. The Dragonborn has been abducted by the Thalmor, and I… _we_ …need to get him out of there."

"The Dragonborn?" M'aiq exclaimed. "This one does not know the Dragonborn well, but he has met him once or twice, and he has always been kind to M'aiq. And the Grey Fox knows that M'aiq has no love for the Thalmor. Where have they taken the Dragonborn?"

"There," Dante said, pointing. "In a cave in those hills, behind a wall of illusion."

"This would explain much," M'aiq mused. "M'aiq has heard of the Thalmor abducting those who worship Talos still, but the people are never found again. It would seem the Grey Fox has found their hide-out."

"We can discuss that later, M'aiq," Dante promised. "Help me now and I'll consider your debt to me honored."

"Let us go swiftly, then," M'aiq nodded. "Lead the way. Khajiit will follow."

The Breton Guildmaster and the Khajiit monk crept silently back up the hill to the part of the cliff face where the Thalmor had vanished, taking the Dragonborn with them. Dante cautiously cast his Detect Life spell once more, knowing that no one inside would hear it going off.

"What does the Guildmaster see?" M'aiq murmured.

"There are two forms just inside," Dante barely breathed. "Sentries, I assume. We need to eliminate them."

"Permanently or temporarily?" M'aiq purred, showing his teeth in a Khajiit smile.

"Oh, permanently, by all means," Dante grinned, drawing Mehrunes Razor.

M'aiq chuckled quietly and extended his claws.

It was over in seconds. A hand over the mouth, and a blade – or a claw – across the throat, and the two guards were sent on their way to Aetherius, if the gods would have them, or to Oblivion if they wouldn't.

The tunnel Dante and M'aiq found themselves in stretched for quite a way, as straight as an arrow, and looked as though it had been worked, and recently. Carved through solid stone, there were places that radiated magicka so strong it raised the hairs on M'aiq's neck, and Dante could feel it tingle in all of his senses.

"This one believes the Thalmor have been working at this tunnel for a long time," the Khajiit muttered.

"I'm inclined to agree with you," Dante said in hushed tones. Voices would carry through a tunnel of this nature, he was certain. While he knew the Dominion were not as strong in magic as their Heartland High Elven ancestors, nevertheless, it had taken some powerful enchantments to create a passage through an entire mountain. If indeed it passed all the way through.

 _There has to be a portal in here somewhere,_ he thought to himself. _The Dominion can't operate openly in Hammerfell, and it's a long way from the Skyrim-Hammerfell border to the sea, if they were planning on taking the Dragonborn to the Summerset Isles. It's likely they have a set-up here similar to what they had at Vilverin, and the other Ayleid ruins in Cyrodiil._

At several points along the long corridor mage lights had been set up, but they were far enough apart to afford the two rogues shadows in which to hide when patrols came by. Periodically, they passed by smaller chambers, carved out of the rock, where Dominion operatives slept, ate or relaxed when not on duty. None saw them pass by.

They had traveled perhaps a mile under the mountain when it gradually opened into a much larger chamber, open to the skies above. Dante realized the entire area was the caldera of a long-dormant volcano, at least two miles across, and descending deeper still. Platforms and catwalks had been constructed, crisscrossing the bowl of the ancient mountain, and off to one side, near the tunnel where they crouched, Dante could see the low, raised daises of arcane portals. There were more lights here, and more Thalmor, both guards and Justiciars.

In the center of the caldera was a sight Dante had never seen before. The hull of a ship seemed to float several feet above its platform. As he turned his gaze upwards, he saw an enormous inflated bag tethered to the ship with lines and netting.

"M'aiq is beginning to think he made a mistake in coming here," the cat hissed. "The Thalmor have an airship."

"Airship?" Dante queried softly. "Is that what that thing is?"

"M'aiq has seen them before, in Elsweyr," he nodded. "Far easier to cross the deserts and jungles by flying over them. M'aiq believes the Dominion based their design on Dwemer constructions, though the Thalmor use magic to propel and guide theirs, and the Dwemer used whatever knowledge they had."

"Airships," Dante muttered. "That will definitely counter what the Dragonborn had planned. And you say the Dominion has a lot of these?"

"M'aiq does not know how many," the Khajiit corrected. "He only knows he has seen them before."

"Alright, change of plans," Dante decided. "Let's pull back a bit. I saw an empty chamber back there a little way. I need to contact my second in command, and I don't want to do it here."

The two crept silently back from the central command center and made their way to the empty chamber. M'aiq closed the door and would have thrown the bolt, but Dante stopped him.

"Locked doors create suspicion," he said. "Just keep your ears open on the corridor out there, and let me know if anyone is coming." M'aiq nodded and took up a position by the door.

Dante moved to the darkest corner and tapped his earbud.

"Reydin," he whispered. "Can you hear me? Can you talk?"

" _I'm right here, Boss,"_ his Bosmer second replied promptly. _"What's up?"_

"I need you to get me all the information you can on Dominion airships," Dante said. "I wasn't even aware they had them."

" _Airships?"_ Reydin echoed. _"You mean, like a fleet or something? The Dominion_ has _been building up their navy lately, but I gave you the reports on that."_

"I mean ships that fly through the air," Dante insisted. "I've just seen one, and M'aiq tells me—"

" _M'aiq is there with you?"_

"Yes," Dante acknowledged. "He says the Dominion uses them in Elsweyr, to cross the deserts and jungles. But it looks like they may be using them to come over the mountains into Skyrim."

" _That's not good."_ Dante could hear the frown in the Bosmer Nightingale's voice.

"Contact Rezhyk down in Elsweyr," Dante ordered. "If anyone knows about them, he—"

"M'aiq hears someone coming," the Khajiit hissed.

"Gotta go," Dante whispered quickly. "Get me that info!" He broke the connection and drew Mehrunes Razor, waving M'aiq away from the door. The Khajiit slipped into a corner and melded into the shadows.

The footsteps came closer, and now they could hear voices talking.

"—get that report to Alinor right away," a female said. "Let them know we've captured the Dragonborn and are holding him here pending further instructions."

"At once, Justiciar," a male said. The footsteps faded and Dante slipped over to the door, opening it barely wide enough to peer out. The male Justiciar was retreating down the corridor in the direction of the entrance. The female was heading back to the large cavern with the airship.

Dante opened the door a bit wider so M'aiq could see. Silently, using the hand signs known to members and associates of the Thieves' Guild, he signed to the Khajiit.

 _Follow the guard. Don't let him send that message. Be discreet. Find me as soon as it's safe._

 _This one understands,_ the cat signed back. _They will never find his body._

Dante wasn't so sure about that, but he nodded anyway and turned to follow the Justiciar. The female Thalmor entered the caldera, but instead of heading towards the airship, she turned and followed the catwalk along the right-hand side until she reached the opening to another tunnel. She paused to speak with a male guard posted at the entrance, and Dante invoked Nocturnal's blessing to creep closer.

"Is the prisoner awake yet?" she demanded.

"Not yet, milady," the guard informed her. "We gagged him, of course, and bound him, but the enforcers were a bit rough with him before we got him, and he hasn't regained consciousness yet."

The Justiciar let out a huff of exasperation. "I've told Avilar before that I don't want them knocked senseless. How does he expect me to interrogate them if they can't answer my questions?"

"Begging your pardon, Lady Caerilia," the guard began diffidently, "but this _is_ the Dragonborn. We've gagged him for obvious reasons. How will you be able to interrogate him without him using one of those Shouts of his?"

"Leave that to me," Lady Caerilia replied, but Dante saw a moment's hesitation in the woman's eyes.

"Did you want me to send Avilar to you?" the guard asked.

"No," she frowned. "I'll speak to him later when I have more time. See what you can do to get the prisoner on his feet again. Once I have confirmation from Alinor, I want him loaded onto the ship."

"Yes, milady," the guard saluted. The Justiciar turned and swept past Dante without ever noticing him, heading back towards the tunnel from which she had come. She disappeared from view, and the Guildmaster fervently hoped M'aiq had been able to stop the other Thalmor and find a place to hide, but he had to trust that the Khajiit would do whatever it took. Right now, he needed to find a way to get the Dragonborn out of his cage and on his feet.

Looking around, he could see Dominion operatives moving around on other platforms, but they were too far away to notice what might be going on in the shadows.

The Thalmor guard assigned to Marcus ducked into the tunnel with Dante on his heels, still unnoticed. The tunnel widened into a large, irregular chamber that might once have been a channel for molten lava, but had now been turned into a holding area for prisoners of the Dominion. Cages lined the walls, and there must have been at least a score of figures huddled miserably inside. Nord, Breton, Imperial, Dunmer, Redguard – some were entire families, judging from the children slumped dejectedly next to their parents. Dante saw Marcus immediately, in a cage by himself nearest the doorway.

The Dominion guard retrieved a small phial from a table nearby, and uncorked it. He took a tentative sniff, and recoiled from the odor.

"This should do the trick," he murmured, smiling.

Unlocking Marcus' cage, he knelt down next to the still form of the Dragonborn and waved the phial under the Imperial's nose. Marcus jerked his head several times before groggily opening his eyes. Trussed and gagged, he could only glare at the guard, who chuckled.

"I don't know why you find it so offensive," the mer remarked casually. "It's similar to the stench your people have spread over our land. Thankfully, we won't have to endure it very much longer. Once you're all wiped off the face of Nirn, we can rejoin our birthright in Aetherius."

"Let me speed you on your way then," a voice hissed in his ear as a blade was drawn across his throat.

Marcus' eyes widened in surprise and recognition as Dante materialized behind the guard, who slumped to the floor. Blood began to pool on the stones, and Dante quickly slit the ropes holding the Dragonborn's wrists behind his back.

Marcus tugged the gag off and muttered sourly, "Now I know how Ulfric Stormcloak felt."

"Can you walk?" Dante urged, keeping one eye on the staging area across the room.

"Yeah," Marcus whispered, rubbing his head. "They conked me on the head pretty good, but I gave as good as I got before they knocked me out."

"We need to get out of here," Dante warned. "That Justiciar will be back soon."

"We can't leave the other prisoners here," Marcus scowled.

"We can come back for them," Dante frowned. "These people won't be able to move very far very fast, and we are outnumbered."

"They don't deserve to be left behind," Marcus insisted. "You and I have skills the Thalmor don't. They got the drop on us before, but we're prepared now—"

"No," Dante cut him off, irritated. The Dragonborn was being naively altruistic again, and it couldn't come at a worse time. _"You_ are my only concern at this point. The other prisoners will have to wait."

"Is this the kind of Emperor you're going to be?" Marcus hissed, barely keeping his own temper in check. "Are you going to be more concerned about saving your own hide than helping your own people? Because if that's the way it's going to be, I'll go to Titus Mede myself and accept his offer of adoption!"

Dante opened his mouth to retort, but stopped. For a few fleeting seconds, he thought of the past few years, and his growing relationship to the Emperor. He saw Clarice's face, beaming with pride upon his finally being acknowledged – albeit privately – as the nobleman he truly was. How would they react, if they could see him sacrificing these people to the horrors the Thalmor would surely inflict on them? He glanced around the small chamber, at the people trapped in the cages, watching both men carefully with barely-disguised hope in their eyes.

But his practical side insisted that he, M'aiq and the Dragonborn could not take on an entire enclave of Thalmor. The odds were so far against them.

 _That's never stopped you before,_ he thought privately. _And think of what a tale it would be, to hamstring an extension of the Aldmeri Dominion!_

"Even if we _could_ free the prisoners," he said finally, with only a small measure of reluctance. "How would we get them past all those Dominion guards?"

"There's that airship out there," Marcus offered.

"We don't know how to make it work," the Grey Fox said, dismissing it.

" _You_ don't know," Marcus clarified. "I'm pretty sure I can figure it out." He had no intention of going into his experience with model airplanes in his former life.

Dante assessed the man before him, brimming with confidence. Realizing he wouldn't get any further elaborations, and knowing he would simply have to trust the Imperial on this one, he shrugged.

"Fine," he relented. "What's your plan?"

"Simple," Marcus whispered. "We take out the guards and Justiciars closest to the airship, then sneak on board and kill any left inside. Get the rest of these people on board and off we go."

"I think you'd find that a bit harder than you think," a voice offered, tentatively.

The two men turned to the speaker, a Dunmer woman in the next cage. There were three small children with her of different races, clinging close to her with tear-stained faces.

"How would you do it, my lady?" Dante asked, curious.

"You'll need to hide that level of activity," she said simply. "You'll need Illusion spells that will work on the masses. You should get them fighting among themselves. Hide our numbers with Muffle and Invisibility. While it looks like there are many Thalmor here, there really aren't that many, considering."

"May we know your name?" Marcus asked kindly.

"I'm Tanari Sadras, of House Sadras in Morrowind," she replied. "I came to Skyrim several years ago to learn more about its people. Recently, while on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Azura, I was captured by the Thalmor. It seems they're no fonder of Daedra worshippers than they are of Talos enthusiasts. I wasn't bothering anyone, but it must have been a slow day and they hadn't got their quota yet."

Both men smiled at her wry sense of humor.

"You see, Dragonborn?" Dante murmured. "Even Tanari agrees your plan isn't well thought-out."

"Neither is yours," Tanari shot back, "if you intend to leave us here to our fate."

"Oh?" Dante arched an eyebrow at her, but in his heart he knew what she would say.

"How long do you think any of us will survive," she scowled, "once the Thalmor realize their prize is gone? They'll kill all of us and disassemble this place. You'll come back in force to find nothing here but our bodies, thrown into the pit down below."

The youngest child whimpered, and she hushed him soothingly.

"If you want to escape," she continued, "then we will _all_ need to work together to make that happen."

"How?" Marcus asked, more willing than the Breton man with him to consider the idea.

"Talk to us," Tanari shrugged. "Learn our strengths. See what we can do. You might be pleasantly surprised."

Dante felt the stirrings of optimism. "What _can_ you do?" he asked, one eye and ear on the chamber entrance.

"I mentioned magic earlier," she replied. "I'm well-versed in many schools, Illusion being one of them. I believe there are a few former Stormcloaks here, as well as a couple of Legion soldiers. Those who can't fight can protect the children. The Thalmor were going to sell them into slavery, but hadn't gotten around to it just yet."

Marcus made a rumbling sound of disapproval deep in his chest, and Dante realized he agreed with the unspoken sentiment.

"I can still swing a sword," an Imperial soldier offered from another cage, "if I had one, that is."

"I'll fight those pointed-eared bastards bare-handed, if I have to," a Nord in rags said sullenly.

"I'm no College wizard," a Breton woman said shyly, "but I'm pretty good with Destruction magic."

"My name's Ingrid," said a middle-aged woman with two children sitting near her. "I'm just a farmer's wife. I can look after the children until it's safe to get out of here."

"I know a thing or two about fighting," volunteered a grizzled Redguard, whose white hair stood out in stark contrast to his dark skin.

One by one, each of the adults in the cages eagerly offered to help fight their way out, and Dante cringed at the noise they must be making. He tried shushing them, but it was clear the prisoners were desperate to be heard, to make their case.

A movement near the doorway made both men whirl around. M'aiq stood there, backlit by the mage lights in the staging area behind him.

"M'aiq wonders what is keeping the Grey Fox for so long?" the cat drawled.

"It's okay," Dante murmured to the Dragonborn, who looked ready to cast a spell. "He's a friend." He turned to M'aiq. "What's going on out there? Did you stop that guard?"

"The message seems to have gotten lost along the way," M'aiq grinned, showing all his pointy teeth. "The Justiciar who went looking for the guard also seems to have met with an unfortunate accident," he added, "but M'aiq thinks we need to leave several minutes ago, as the Thalmor are becoming suspicious."

"Alright," Marcus said briskly. "Here's what we do: Greyshadow, get these cages open. I'm going to find my weapons—"

"There are a few chests in the next small chamber," Tanari offered helpfully. "It's where they put all of our belongings."

"Great!" Marcus beamed. "Anyone missing anything, come join me there to reclaim your stuff."

"M'aiq, help me with the cages," Dante gestured. With two of them working, it was quickly accomplished, and the small crowd of people gathered around, personal belongings having been reclaimed, to hear the next stage of the plan. The excitement in the air was palpable.

"M'aiq, Tanari and I can cause the distractions," Dante offered. "That will give you and your team time to get aboard the airship and kill anyone inside. Ingrid and Ruslan will keep the children here until I give the word."

"How are you going to fly that thing?" one of the Nords, a former Stormcloak named Tobias, asked.

"I'll figure it out," Marcus said, with more confidence than he felt.

"That may not be good enough," said Arias, the Imperial soldier. "I've been inside that thing; I've seen them use it. They thought I was unconscious, when they knocked me out and brought me here in it. But I watched and studied them. They channel magic into it somehow. At least, one does, and the other pilots it like any ship captain would. I don't know how they account for shifting winds, though."

"You sound like you know something about ships," Dante said, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"Sixteen years in the Imperial Navy," the soldier said proudly. "I ought to know something by now."

"Excellent!" Marcus exclaimed. "You might be our pilot, then. I can channel magicka."

"That's all very well and good," Dante said cautiously, "but first we have to get to it and take it over, and to do that, we have to eliminate anyone trying to stop us."

"Then the sooner we begin," M'aiq said smoothly, "the sooner we will be on our way."

Dante still had his doubts, but deep inside he was quivering with excitement. What a heist _this_ would be! Something to rival even the Eyes of the Falmer!

The Khajiit, the Dunmer and the Guildmaster crept out of the prison cave, the descending darkness outside ruined by the mage lights set around important areas. Dante pulled his Nightingale hood up over his face. They followed the catwalk as it undulated up and down, and around the edge of the caldera, moving closer to the airship. Dante made a few hand gestures to M'aiq, who nodded and separated, staying close to the wall of the caldera on the left side.

"Where is he going?" Tanari murmured.

"To take out the guards over there," the Breton man muttered back.

"Is that what all the hand waving was about?"

Dante nodded. "Think you can aggravate that cluster over there?" He made a slight gesture towards a group of Thalmor soldiers at a platform several yards away.

"I'll have to get a bit closer," Tanari whispered, "but yes, I believe I can." She silently cast an invisibility spell on herself, and with all the other ambient noises in the complex, Dante never heard her leave.

Left alone, Dante moved closer to the airship. There were four guards stationed at the base of it, where a ramp led up to the ship portion, floating about eight feet off the platform. He assumed there were more inside. He would leave those for the Dragonborn and his team. The more immediate concern was clearing the way for them to get inside the conveyance. Silently casting his own Invisibility spell, he moved up until he was behind the nearest one to him.

A sudden commotion rang out around the caldera as the group of soldiers at the other platform began arguing vociferously among themselves. It escalated quickly, erupting into an all-out fight between them. The four guards at the airship, distracted, moved to the railing to watch. Dante grinned.

Quickly, he repositioned himself and grabbed the first soldier by the legs, flipping him up and over the railing. The second followed the first, and both screamed their way to the bottom of the dormant volcano, hundreds of feet below.

The last two, alerted to something wrong, swept the area with their eyes, while conjuring blades made of pure magical energy. Dante had already seized the legs of the third, who looked down, his sword dissipating. As Dante flipped the mer, the soldier made a desperate grab for the railing as he went over, and dangled there, calling for help.

The remaining guard, instead of helping his companion, slashed out at Dante, who was now quite visible. In a heartbeat, Mehrunes Razor was in the Guildmaster's hand as he blocked the mer's attack. He danced around the mer, feinting with the dagger while the Thalmor gauged his opponent with slanted green eyes. The soldier on the railing was laboriously attempting to pull himself up.

Like a serpent strike, the Thalmor soldier swiped again with the summoned blade, and Dante leaped upwards to grab a ladder embedded in the side of the airship. The magical blade caught him across the back of his leg, and he grunted in pain, but it didn't stop him from making contact with the rung jutting out from the hull. Using his momentum, he swung over the soldier's head and kicked out at the one who was now attempting to come back over the rail. His booted feet connected solidly with the mer's solar plexus, and Dante heard rather than saw him fall to the bottom of the caldera below. Propelled backward by the opposite force of kicking off the Thalmor, Dante tumbled past the remaining soldier – who missed with his summoned sword – and rolled back up on his feet on the platform.

"I'll kill you for that!" the Altmer gritted.

Dante gave him a mocking bow. "I invite you to try."

Snarling, the Thalmor rushed forward, weapon raised. Dante waited until the last possible moment before neatly side-stepping, laying open the mer's side with the Daedric blade. As the soldier fell gasping, clutching a hand to his side, he attempted to summon magicka with which to heal himself, but Dante stepped up behind him.

"Ah-ah-ahh," the Nightingale mocked softly as he crouched over the soldier. "None of that now. Time to die!" He pulled the mer's head back by the chin and neatly sliced his throat. Rising, he sheathed Mehrunes Razor and summoned a simple healing spell, clapping his hand to his leg. His eyes searched the immediate area to assess their situation.

At the platform across the way, only two Thalmor soldiers remained, and one of them had gone down to his knees. He saw Tanari crouched behind a stack of crates sitting on the catwalk and caught her eye. She nodded, as if to say, "I've got this under control," and Dante nodded back. Scanning the rest of the area, he couldn't see M'aiq. There were several bodies lying behind another stack of crates where the cat had been, however. The Khajiit must have pursued other targets; at least, he hoped so. One could never be sure with M'aiq. He tended to come and go as he pleased. Crouching and gliding over to the main tunnel, Dante cast his Detect Life spell – thanking the Arch Mage silently as he did so, for teaching it to him on his last visit to Skyrim.

Several figures lit up beyond the walls of stone; he guessed them to be approximately a hundred yards away or so. As he watched, a crouched figure moved towards one standing close to it. The crouched figure rose up, and soon, where there had been two figures, there was only one. Dante grinned to himself.

 _I think I know where M'aiq went._

Satisfied that no one would be coming into the caldera by way of the tunnel any time soon, Dante returned to the prisoners' cave and motioned them to come out. Marcus and his team emerged. Besides Tobias and Arias, there was a Nord battle priestess of Talos named Ursine the Bear, and the grizzled, battle-scarred Redguard veteran named Nels. The last member was a Breton named Colby who was deliberately vague about the kind of work he did. Marcus decided to let it pass for now.

"Let's go," Marcus murmured to his crew. "Leave none of them alive." There were several nods and mutterings of agreement from his mixed bag of companions. They stooped low and half-ran, half-scuttled to the airship and up the ramp to the deck overhead.

Dante returned inside to see who was left. Ingrid, along with Phebe, the Breton girl who knew Destruction, stood guard over the children and the remaining prisoners who weren't experienced fighters. The adults all had weapons now, however, having pilfered them back from the chests in the adjacent room, and Dante had no doubt they would fight to the last person if needs must. Better to go down fighting, than to submit to the Thalmor.

Outside the holding cell, Marcus and his team reached the ramp leading up to the deck of the airship. He could hear shouting, now, from across the caldera and knew that time was running out. He hoped Greyshadow would be getting the rest of the prisoners ready to get on board as soon as the coast was clear.

Above them, but not yet visible, Marcus could hear feet thudding across the wooden deck. This was not the best position to be in. The Altmer on deck would have the advantage of height, and none of Marcus' crew had ranged weapons, unless they could cast spells. As he cleared the top of the ramp, he could see at least two dozen Thalmor soldiers rushing towards the rail.

" _FUS RO DAH!"_ he bellowed, and blew them back to the far side of the ship. Three of them went over the rail. Calling on his inner resources, a trick taught to him by Miraak, Marcus Shouted out a second Unrelenting Force, and two more soldiers went over the side.

 _I like these odds better,_ he grinned to himself.

Then the battle was joined, and Marcus forced himself to focus. Knowing his fellow companions had little in the way of arms or armor, he knew he had to take the brunt of the assault. Tobias moved up on his right side, and Arias guarded his left. Ursine charged into the middle of a cluster of Thalmor soldiers, and Marcus could see right away how she had acquired her nickname. With nothing more than a steel mace, Ursine managed to knock another Altmer over the side of the ship, but caught an arrow in the hip from a conjured bow wielded by a Thalmor on the foredeck.

"I've got that one!" Colby called out, raising a bow he had confiscated from the chest, along with a few handfuls of arrows. The bow was of Dwemer make, and while not nearly as powerful as the conjured one, Colby fired off two shots, then leaped for the cover of a bulwark when the Altmer returned fire.

Arias shield-bashed his opponent before sweeping low with his Imperial-issue sword. The Thalmor leaped upwards to avoid the slash, using the momentum of his descent to bring his hooked elven mace down on top of the Imperial Marine, who barely blocked it with the shield in time. Metal screeched against metal as the hooks dug into the steel. Tobias was swinging and blocking with a steel warhammer, his moves coming so quickly that the soldier couldn't follow in time to stop the hammer from crushing his skull. The deck was becoming slippery from the loss of blood. Tobias stepped forward, over his fallen opponent, and lost his balance, going down hard.

"Tobias!" Ursine cried, from across the deck.

Another Thalmor bore down on the fallen Nord with a conjured sword raised for a killing blow. A bolt of lightning slammed into the Altmer from behind, causing the sword to fizzle out. As the Thalmor turned to see where this new attack had come from, Ursine fired another lightning bolt that brought the golden-skinned warrior to his knees.

Taking advantage of her distraction, however, another Thalmor threw a firebolt at the priestess, and she was forced to throw up a ward to protect herself.

Marcus was involved with two other soldiers, unable to assist Tobias. Arias bashed his shield into his opponent again and sliced the mer's head from his shoulders. Turning, he stepped around Marcus and over Tobias, guarding the Nord until the man could get to his feet again.

"My thanks, friend!" Tobias grunted, and finished off the gravely injured Thalmor.

Near the wheelhouse, Colby continued to offer ranged support, but saw the hatch on the port side open.

"We've got company coming!" he cried as another wave of a half dozen Justiciars came up from belowdecks.

"I got 'em," Nels assured him, and made a gesture with one hand while he drew an ebony sword that glimmered with blue light. A sudden, whirling maelstrom of wind and lightning crackled into being, and two of the Justiciars headed for the ramp leading down.

"Colby!" Nels shouted, pointing with his sword before engaging the closest of the Justiciars. The female Altmer in black and gold robes made a small gesture of her own, and lightning crackled from both hands. She brought them together and channeled them into a dual-cast lightning bolt aimed directly at Nels. It would have been extremely painful, had he taken a direct hit. But in spite of his mature years, Nels sidestepped it easily, suffering only a glancing blow. An amulet at his throat glowed blue briefly, and the Altmer's eyes widened.

"Yes," Nels chuckled. "You recognize resistance magic when you see it, girl, don't you?"

"It won't save you," she snarled. "You are all going to die here _now!"_

Nels shrugged. "Maybe," he said off-handedly. "But if I do, I can at least take a few of you with me."

The Justiciar's eyes narrowed, and once more she channeled her magicka, but this time it was fire. Nels hit the deck and rolled past her. She followed with the flames and scorched his back, causing him to grunt in pain. Gritting his teeth against it, he rose and advanced, twisting his ebony blade in an intricate dance of death that left the Justiciar confused about which direction the strike would come. As she avoided the blade, Nels threw out another spell, which seemed to have missed, and as she retreated from his physical attacks, she mocked him.

"You can't possibly defeat me," she gloated. "I am clearly far superior to you when it comes to magic! You humans barely understand the concept!"

"I understand the purpose of runes," Nels smiled calmly.

The Justiciar gasped and looked behind her too late to stop her foot from crossing the shock rune which lay on the deck. It exploded, sending her body sailing into the abyss below.

"That was amazing!" Colby congratulated him. Nels smiled modestly as he cast a healing spell on himself.

"What about those other two Justiciars?" the Redguard asked.

Colby glanced nonchalantly over the side at the two arrow-ridden bodies on the platform below, and replied smugly, "Oh, I don't think they'll be going anywhere any time soon. And hey! Here comes Tanari and that Khajiit fellow!"

"Good," Nels rumbled. "We can use the reinforcements, and we wouldn't want them to get left behind. Go help Ursine. I think the Dragonborn could use some help down there on the main deck."

Whirling around the deck, the Storm Atronach Nels had conjured was targeting several of the Thalmor soldiers too far away to engage in combat. The random surges of electricity kept most of them clear of the area where the Dragonborn was fighting, but there were still too many for him to handle alone.

Marcus found himself back-to-back with Arias. Tobias was plowing his way through a cluster of soldiers to get to Ursine, who was being overwhelmed. Even Arias was looking winded, and Marcus realized that most of his crew had already suffered under their imprisonment, and their ability to fight effectively was compromised. He saw black-coated Justiciars come up from somewhere below and gritted his teeth.

The Justiciars would most certainly lend magical support, and while the Thalmor soldiers mainly fought with either real or conjured weapons, any or all of them could choose to cast debilitating spells. He wondered where Greyshadow had gotten to, and came close to cursing the Breton under his breath. He had to trust that the Grey Fox would be able to get here in time to lend his rather unique talents to the fray.

From the entrance to the prisoners' holding cell, Dante could see the battle ensuing on the deck of the airship, and did a little cursing of his own. He knew this was a foolish plan. How naïve was it of the Dragonborn to assume they could just dance onto the airship and take it? Still, the desire to heist something this valuable directly from the Aldmeri Dominion was a temptation too great to resist. Tanari half-ran, half crouched back to the cave.

"We need to get out of here, now!" she said breathlessly. "One of the guards got away. She'll alert the entire complex!"

Dante swore under his breath. "Fine. Tanari, get these people ready to move on my command. M'aiq, stay here and watch for the signal."

"Where does the Grey Fox go?" M'aiq asked, curious.

"To take control of that ship," Dante answered. With his Nightingale hood in place, M'aiq couldn't see the Grey Fox's face, but he heard the lilt of a smug smile in the voice.

"Azura, Mephala and Boethiah go with you," Tanari said fervently.

"I don't think we need to bring them into this," the Nightingale muttered as he swept towards the airship.

 _The odds are three to one,_ Marcus thought bitterly. _Maybe Greyshadow was right. Maybe this_ was _a stupid idea. But how could I leave them behind?_

The frustration lent frenzy to his attacks, and he viciously pressed the cluster of soldiers back against the far rail of the deck.

" _FUS RO DAH!"_ he bellowed once more, sending four more to their deaths below. One of them was a black-robed Justiciar who had gravely injured Arias. The Imperial Marine was lying on the deck, scorch marks covering most of his body, and the smell of ozone lay heavy in the air. Marcus couldn't take the time to heal the man, but Arias was the only one who could potentially fly the airship. He _had_ to survive.

"Ursine!" he called above the cacophony of battle. "I need you here, now!"

But Ursine was pinned down by another Justiciar, who was peppering her with shock spells. Her ward was barely holding. Tobias had her back, but there were at least four more Thalmor soldiers feinting, slashing and looking for an opening around them.

Marcus saw two more soldiers go down with arrows in their throats, and he heard, rather than saw the sickening crush of a skull caving in as Nels grunted with the effort.

"I've got your back, Dragonborn," the veteran assured him.

"Can you heal?" Marcus yelled back.

"Not at the moment," the Redguard said calmly. "Unless you want to be a meat shield while I do it."

"Do it!" Marcus insisted. "Arias needs help!"

Nels shrugged as his Atronach winked out of existence and knelt down next to the Imperial Marine while Marcus redoubled his efforts to hold off the four Thalmor soldiers pressing their advantage. Three more were attempting to work their way around behind the Dragonborn and the Redguard spellsword, but one suddenly clutched his throat, gargling horribly and fell to his knees. Across the airship, near the wheelhouse, Colby fired off two more arrows towards the group Tobias and Ursine were attempting to take out. One hit a soldier that was already wounded, and he went down. The second would have hit the Justiciar, but she side-stepped out of the way and launched a fusillade of Ice Spikes towards the Breton archer.

Colby ducked just as the spikes shattered against the ship's wheel. He felt the temperature drop slightly.

"Whoo!" he gasped. "That was a close one!"

Near the hatch, the last Justiciar seemed to be building up an enormous amount of magicka, and Colby felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He sent two arrows in quick succession towards the Altmer enforcer, but they bounced harmlessly off some sort of invisible shield the mer had set up around herself.

"That's not good!" the wiry little Breton muttered. "Nels!" he called, gesturing towards the Justiciar.

"I'm kind of busy!" the Redguard exclaimed, peachy-pink energy pouring from his hands into Arias, who was starting to stir.

Marcus cut down another soldier with his Akaviri blade, a simple ebony dagger in his off hand for balance. He blocked another cut from the third gold-and-glass-clad Thalmor and Shouted his Frost Breath towards the rest of the cluster. Two staggered back, giving him a moment's respite.

Tobias and Ursine managed to take down three more of the soldiers oppressing them, but the Justiciar had summoned a Flame Atronach who wasn't being exactly careful about where her shots were landing. Part of the airship ignited and the small fires smoldered, not quite a conflagration yet, but the flames were creeping towards the side of the ship were lines and rigging were secured.

Arias sat up and brushed off Nels' healing. "I'm alright," he said, rather shakily. "Help the others!"

Ursine bashed in the head of yet another Thalmor soldier, and Tobias caught the Justiciar with a backswing of his warhammer before she could scramble out of the way. She went down, and the Atronach winked out.

"Colby!" he roared. "The fire! Stop the fire!"

"What do I look like?" the Breton grumbled as he hastened to find a bucket. "A mermaid?"

The Thalmor by the hatch was nearing the completion of whatever spell she was building up. Nels knew he couldn't reach her in time. He was too far away, and there were still too many Thalmor soldiers in between them. Marcus couldn't extricate himself from the two soldiers threatening him, nor could they expect help from Tobias and Ursine, whom Arias had gone to assist.

"I don't like the looks of that conjuration she's doing," Nels shouted.

A portal was beginning to open, and Marcus knew by now that nothing good could come out of that.

Suddenly the spell fizzled, the portal closed without anything coming through. Marcus gutted the last two soldiers, one after the other, and looked up.

The Justiciar had stiffened, a trickle of blood coming out of her mouth. More poured from the gaping wound across her throat. Slowly, she slumped to her knees and toppled forward, to lie still in a pool of her own blood. Behind her, the Nightingale calmly wiped his dagger on her robes before sheathing his blade.

In a matter of moments, the last four Thalmor soldiers were dispatched by Colby, Ursine, Tobias and Arias. Dante motioned Marcus towards the hatch, and together the two men descended into the hull of the airship while Ursine and Nels healed everyone of their injuries, and Tobias went to get the rest of the prisoners and bring them aboard.

"Well, Dragonborn," Dante sighed, exasperated. "It wasn't very efficient, but you got the job done. We _need_ to get out of here, _now_. This place is going to be crawling with more Thalmor than you can shake your sword at very shortly."

"I'm sorry, Greyshadow," Marcus said sincerely. "I honestly didn't think it was going to be that tough of a fight."

"You had courage on your side, Dragonborn," Dante allowed. "They had numbers on theirs. And your team wasn't in top condition, either, which was understandable. None of that matters. As soon as everyone is on board, you and the rest of the magic users get this thing in the air, and we'll see if Arias can actually get it to do what he wants." He paused. "And for the record," he continued. "I'm sorry, too. You were absolutely right that we should save these people. They don't deserve the retributions they would have suffered from the Dominion. I will endeavor to keep that in mind from now on. I can't just think of myself anymore. I need to think about the people I may end up ruling – _my_ people," he emphasized. "It doesn't matter where they live, or if they're part of the Empire or not. We all have a common enemy, and we'll have to work together to defeat them." He held out his hand, and the Dragonborn didn't hesitate to clasp wrists with him.

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Greyshadow," Marcus smiled. "It makes me feel a bit better, knowing we'll have to turn things over to you at some point."

"But not yet," Dante warned, holding up his other hand. "Not just yet. I believe we still have time. Let's get Arias down here and see what he thinks about the chances of actually flying this thing."

"Sure, I can fly it," Arias assured them, a few minutes later. Nels and Tobias had joined them, as well. The last of the prisoners were being settled in the cargo hold, since there was no real place to put them. The airship appeared to have been meant for transporting goods, rather than passengers. "You just need to channel a steady stream of magicka into that gem, there, on the console. That causes the airship to lift. Well, that and that giant airbag this thing is strapped to. The ship's wheel topside steers the rudder sail at the stern, and like any other ship on water, we'll use the other sails to catch the wind to move us forward."

"What if the wind isn't blowing in the direction we want?" Dante asked.

"We'll need to tack against it," Marcus replied before Arias could answer, and the Imperial Marine nodded.

"I see you know something about ships, too, Dragonborn," he commented.

"A bit," Marcus admitted. "I used to do a bit of sailing with my family when I was a boy. But nothing on this scale."

"Well, at least you'll know which sheets and lines I mean when I call out to adjust them," Arias shrugged.

"Right," Marcus said. "I'll head topside and get a few people ready to help out on that end."

"Take Colby with you," Arias advised. "He's small enough to be able to get up the rigging if it becomes necessary."

"Nels, Tanari and I will remain down here, channeling magicka," Dante decided.

"With all due respect," Nels chimed in, "I think I'd be of more help topside. Phebe might not look like much to the rest of you, but there's a reason the Thalmor bound her hands behind her back."

Marcus and Dante exchanged a look. Safely below deck now, the Nightingale had removed his hood.

"Good enough," Dante nodded. "Send her down."

Very soon the airship – which they learned was named _Varla Cey,_ or _Star Shadow –_ lifted into the air, just as scores of Altmer soldiers and Justiciars poured from the tunnels onto the platforms encircling the caldera.

"Incoming!" Marcus yelled, as arrows and fireballs flew towards the ship. "Get down!"

Everyone literally hit the deck except Nels, who channeled his magicka into the largest warding spell Marcus had seen. Moreover, the veteran spellsword maneuvered the arcane shield to block the incoming missile attacks from hitting the gigantic airbag, which provided part of the lift they needed to get airborne.

The _Star Shadow_ was rising rapidly now, and was soon out of reach of the Thalmor attacks. Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. The Justiciars screamed in frustration as they cleared the top rim of the dormant volcano, and the magicka pulsing in her heart – along with Arias at the helm and Marcus and the others pulling on the lines and setting the sails – sent the _Star Shadow_ on her way.

"What heading are we taking, Dragonborn?" Arias called.

"North by east," Marcus called back. "Let's get clear of here, and take a look at some of the charts below, and I'll be able to get you a better idea. For now, let's just get the flock out of Dodge!"

Arias gave him a curious look at his colorful euphemism, but said nothing as they sped on through a clear night sky, studded with stars, and the two moons of Nirn.

* * *

The spiral staircase seemed to go down forever, and Azura was feeling slightly dizzy by the time they reached the bottom. It was colder here, and their breath hung in the air like tiny fog banks. Tamsyn shivered, in spite of the fur-lined mantle and hood of her Arch-Mage's robes. Snow lay on the ground, dry and powdery, drifted into the corners of the shaft and under the stairs. A short corridor led from here ending in a wooden door, under which a draught of frosty air was blowing.

The chamber beyond the door was a large, open abyss with a stone catwalk, caged with iron bars, reaching to the other side. It was supported by a pillar of stonework in the center, around which they could see nothing. Tamsyn hated those kinds of obstructions. Enemies could easily hide behind them. She fired off a Detect Death spell, and while several figures lit up, none were lurking just around the pillar.

Azura leaned over the iron railing to peer down into the chasm, but could see nothing. The view upwards only revealed more stone, though there was a source of light from far overhead. Snow drifted down, but whether that meant it was falling from the skies or being blown by the winds, it was impossible to tell.

The catwalk turned at a right angle to the pillar and ended in another wooden door. The dimly-lit room beyond was filled with more crypts hewn out of the rock face, some of which contained skeletal remains or mummified bodies that would clearly not rise to threaten them. Empty coffins lay scattered about, and Azura wondered if they had once been filled, but their occupants were now wandering this tomb. She shuddered, memories of the crawling draugr still fresh in her mind. She took comfort in the knowledge that the cobwebs were old and dusty here, and had not been disturbed for quite some time.

In the next chamber they found a round altar set against the right-hand wall between two doors, connected by a corridor behind the altar. There was a locked chest in here, which Tamsyn opened with a spell, and they tucked the coins, gems, jewelry and potions into their packs. They left the dagger and armor behind, even though they were enchanted. It would have been added weight to carry, and the two women had better equipment.

The corridor behind the alter led them up a flight of stairs and opened into a large burial chamber flanked by the stylized Nordic dragon columns. At the far end of the tomb they could see a Draugr Deathlord seated on a throne adorned with the skeletal remains of nameless foes. To either side of this were piles of desecrated bodies and bones. Rising above the throne on a stonework pillar, they could dimly see a large sarcophagus resting behind a cage of iron.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Azura whispered.

The Deathlord rose as soon as it sensed their presence, and the two women cast their strongest mage armor spells. Tamsyn put up a ward, and Azura conjured a bow of pure magicka.

" _Aadiik kent dir,"_ the Deathlord rumbled menacingly.

"What did he say?" Azura called, loosing an arrow from her bow.

"'Invaders must die,'" Tamsyn called back before concentrating on a Master-level Restoration spell, Bane of the Undead.

Seeing Tamsyn begin the incantation, Azura nodded and focused on the Deathlord, who was advancing rapidly upon them. Letting the conjured bow dissipate, she channeled her magicka into a dual-cast Incinerate and sent it forth, slamming into the Deathlord.

It staggered slightly, but recovered far too quickly and took a deep breath.

 _Uh oh,_ Azura realized, her eyes widening.

" _FUS RO DAH!"_

Up became down as Azura felt herself lifted and tumbled through the air. She slammed against the back wall of the crypt and lay slumped on the floor, stunned and gasping for breath. Dimly, she was aware Tamsyn lay beside her, in no better condition. The Restoration spell had not manifested, as there had not been enough time to cast it.

Tamsyn recovered first and barely managed to get her ward up before the Deathlord's ebony battleaxe came crashing down on top of her. Sparks flew as the enchanted weapon skittered against her magical barrier, and the Deathlord's eyes narrowed in hate.

" _Hi dreh ni engein het,"_ he growled. _You do not belong here._ He stepped back to allow for room to swing the battleaxe once more.

Tamsyn didn't bother to respond. Dropping the ward, she channeled her energy through both hands into a spell from an entirely different school of magic: Illusion. The Pacify hit the Deathlord full in the chest, and for a moment he staggered and relaxed, giving Tamsyn time to get to her feet and drag Azura away, closer to the stairs.

"I can…walk!" the Bosmer mage gasped, rising. She drew Sting and Grave; magic was all very well and good, but they needed to do some serious damage here.

"You can't go toe-to-toe with that brute!" Tamsyn exclaimed.

"I have to," Azura insisted. "Just keep me in the fight!"

The Deathlord was shaking his head, as if to clear it, and Tamsyn nodded. "Alright," she agreed. "I don't like it, but here you go." She laid a Rally spell on her friend, and Azura straightened, gripped her two swords confidently and advanced on the draugr.

Seeing the Bosmer mage approach, the Deathlord inhaled to Shout again, but Azura was faster and sliced with Sting, followed swiftly by Grave. Though she knew the frost-enchanted blade wouldn't be as effective, it would still deal the physical damage they needed to take the Deathlord out.

" _Duziir lir,"_ the Deathlord growled. _"Dir ko maar!"_

Azura knew the last three words. She'd heard them before.

"You're the one who's going to die in terror when I slice you into ribbons," she promised. "Dead things should _stay_ dead!" Her blades flashed in the dim light, and the Deathlord was pressed backwards, blocking her attempts to get through his guard. Growling gutturally, he tightened his grip on his battleaxe and slipped past Azura's defense, landing a blow on her shoulder.

Azura screamed with pain, fumbling Grave. She staggered back, desperately trying to keep her grip on her stahlrim blade, and suddenly felt a tingling sense of warmth rush through her. The Deathlord halted in his advance, reluctant to get closer, and Azura realized that Tamsyn had managed to cast a Guardian Circle behind her. The wound closed almost immediately, and strength returned to her grip.

Once more, the Deathlord inhaled, and once more the _thu'um_ boomed through the crypt. This time, however, Azura was able to put up her ward, and while she was pushed back, she was able to stay on her feet.

Tamsyn had moved up behind her on her right side, and threw a ball of light at the draugr so intense it lit up the tomb as bright as day. Azura squinted her eyes against it, and the Deathlord staggered when it hit.

"What is _that?"_ Azura exclaimed.

"Sunfire," Tamsyn replied. "Sorine Jurard taught me."

"Teach _me_ when this is over!" Azura begged.

"That's a promise!"

The Deathlord recovered from the attack, but was looking much weaker.

"We've got him on the ropes," Tamsyn cried. "Keep pushing!"

Once more, Azura advanced and laid about with her daedric and stahlrim blades. The Deathlord was now on the defensive, and between the battering of the physical attacks and the relentless barrage of arcane assaults, it wasn't long before he finally succumbed.

Both women heaved a sigh of relief, and Tamsyn – out of habit – rummaged through his remains. All that he held was a key and a piece of parchment. She opened the paper and read it aloud.

" _Be bound here, Beinaarkh, traitor, defiler! Condemned by your crimes against god and brother, may the horrors you wrought be forgotten forever. May no foul servant of evil come hither. Be bound here, Beinaarkh, murderer, betrayer! Bled by Nofur Spear-Ear in life and death, forever separate from beloved kin. Corrupt none with thine foul breath!"_

An explosive burst boomed through the tomb from somewhere overhead. A guttural chanting in a language neither of them knew rebounded against the dusty crypts and silent statuary. Azura gasped as the canopic jar – which had been tucked safely in her backpack – suddenly appeared in the air before them and zoomed towards the sarcophagus overhead in the iron cage, where it vanished. The coffin burst open, and a lich rose from its shattered remains.

"Uh oh," Tamsyn muttered. "I think we screwed up."

"Fools!" rasped the lich. "You will bind me here no longer!" Once more, he chanted in that unknown tongue. As he did so, three desiccated bodies rose from the floor near the throne and advanced on the two women.

Fire spells quickly eliminated the newly baptized draugr, and Tamsyn fired off a Thunderbolt towards the lich on the platform above, but her spell bounced harmlessly off the iron bars of the cage.

"Dammit!" she swore. Azura blinked for a moment. It was completely out of character for the Arch-Mage to use profanity, but in this instance, Azura felt her friend could be forgiven.

"Area of effect spells," she suggested, and launched a fireball towards the lich they now knew to be Beinaarkh. It was as effective as the Thunderbolt, and Azura realized that the iron bars themselves weren't preventing the spells from reaching him; Beinaarkh had immediately put up some kind of magical barrier, anticipating that the first reaction to his resurrection would be a retaliatory arcane attack.

He was chanting again, in that unknown language that set Tamsyn's teeth on edge. It practically oozed evil in every syllable. Bones were rising off the floor now, coming together to form – _what?_

The final silhouette was something out of a nightmare. Larger than a normal skeleton, it floated in midair with legs crossed, and it was summoning more skeletons. As horrific a nightmare as this was, it was more of an annoyance to the two mages, who could not proceed after Beinaarkh until they dealt with the immediate threat.

"It's called an 'Ossa-Domini'," Azura told Tamsyn. "Neloth told me about these. High-level necromancers are able to summon these if there are the material components around with which to construct them."

"There's a lot of bones here," Tamsyn observed, targeting the creature with her Destruction spells. Azura laid about her with her swords, keeping the summoned skeletons at bay.

When the Ossa-Domini crumbled to dust, the women moved forward, but Beinaarkh had one more card yet to play. With another incantation, a very large pile of bones moved into position to form a dragon-skulled skeleton as large as a Dwemer Centurion.

 _It moves like one, too,_ Tamsyn thought in frustration. Beinaarkh chuckled evilly as he trusted that his minion would overcome this minor inconvenience.

"An Ossa-Macello," Azura breathed. "The most powerful of the summoned bone demons!"

"I've had enough of this!" Tamsyn steamed. She summoned her magicka as Azura prepared to fight the behemoth. Gesturing the intricate patterns required to focus the spell, she released it. The effect was dramatic. The Ossa-Macello shuddered and ignited as tendrils of magicka reached out to envelope it. As the spell intensified, it desperately attempted to move as far away from the two mages as possible, but it had nowhere to go.

Azura noticed this and quickly summoned her bound bow once more, keeping well away from the death-dealing claws and jaws of this powerful summon. Made of nothing but bones, a bludgeoning weapon would have been more effective, but Azura had no intention of closing with it.

The Bane of the Undead spell continued to sap its false life force, and over their heads, Beinaarkh's impassive face revealed nothing of his thoughts. If he was concerned, he didn't show it. When the Ossa-Macello succumbed inevitably to the unforgiving onslaught brought by the two mages, he released his _thu'um_ in a powerful Unrelenting Force, blowing them backwards, before making his escape.

Bruised and battered, Tamsyn and Azura pulled themselves to their feet and stood, unsteadily, for several moments as they pulled healing potions from their packs and allowed their magicka to regenerate.

"That didn't go as planned," Azura frowned.

"No," Tamsyn agreed. "We screwed up. How could we have known this 'Nofur Spear-Ear' was the one holding Beinaarkh in binding?"

"We have to go after him," Azura stated, plainly.

Tamsyn nodded. "I know. He can't have gone far, but while he's out there, he's a threat not just to the College, but to the entire town of Winterhold; perhaps even Skyrim itself!"

"Well, if it helps, I've fought liches before," Azura offered, as they walked to the far end of the chamber, looking for the exit.

"As have I," Tamsyn affirmed. "It's a matter of finding their weakness and exploiting it. Right now, though, we don't know what Beinaarkh's weakness is."

"Don't we?" Azura queried. "He relies heavily on summons to do his dirty work for him. You saw how he conjured those Ossas."

"Yes, but he had the materials here to do it," Tamsyn pointed out. "There likely won't be much outside that he can use, so he'll fall back on a new tactic we don't know yet."

"We can think of that later," Azura said confidently. "For now, let's get out of here. If I never see another crypt again, it will be too soon!"

The only way out passed through two separate treasure chambers, which required Nofur's key to open, and the mages eagerly scooped as much of the gold, gems and jewels as their packs could hold. The bulkier items were left behind. On one side table, Tamsyn found a slim volume, _Under Winterhold,_ which she eagerly paged through.

"I've never seen that book before," Azura said, looking over her shoulder.

"Nor have I," Tamsyn said. "It seems to be a brief history of Beinaarkh and his Dragon cult. We can read this later." She tucked the small book into her already burgeoning backpack and led the way to a spiral staircase that ended in a door, which was locked. Tamsyn fit Nofur's key into the keyhole and turned, pleased when it opened. If it hadn't, she would have used magic to circumvent the lock. Once through the door, Tamsyn knew exactly where she was.

"We're in Skytemple Ruins!" she exclaimed, just as a sarcophagus near the door banged open.

"Oh, stop it!" Azura shouted angrily, and blasted the draugr with an Icy Spear, that would ordinarily not have done much damage. But this was a very low-level draugr pitted against a very highly advanced spell, so it really wasn't much contest. It crumpled, and Azura gave a small, "Hmph!" of satisfaction.

There wasn't much in the chest next to the door, either. A few more coins, a few more gems, and some basic potions, but the women dutifully took them and opened the wooden door on the other side of the chamber, stepping out into Skyrim once more.

Immediately, they could see Beinaarkh had not gone far. Skeletons in the area had been animated, and as they approached, he concluded his ritual over a dragon mound.

" _Kahvozein,"_ he intoned, " _ziil gro dovah ulse!"_

Tamsyn gasped. Alduin had used those same words.

"What is he doing?" Azura questioned. "What do those words mean?"

"He's raising the dragon!" Tamsyn whispered.

" _Slen tiid vo!"_

The percussive force of Beinaarkh's _thu'um_ sent the two women sprawling once more, and the skeletons hurried after them, as eager to end their existence as Beinaarkh was to restore Kahvozein's.

The ground rumbled as the dragon erupted through it, skeletal in form, but with flesh quickly adhering to bones. As the skin covered its final form, they could see blue scales glimmering like sapphires in the afternoon sun.

"I had no idea the Dragon Priests had that power!" Tamsyn gasped again, rolling to her feet. "I thought only Alduin could bring the dragons back from the dead!"

"The more you know," Azura quipped. "Watch out! Incoming!" She blocked an attack from one of the skeletons and swept out with Sting in her off hand, crashing through dry bones. Tamsyn peppered the next two with Firebolts as Azura scanned the area for the lich. She found him keeping a spire of stone between himself and the mages. But the dragon, now fully formed, had noticed them as well, and roared out, _"DIIL QOTH ZAAM!"_

Chain Lightning snaked out from behind the pillar, and both women dove for the nearest snowbank to avoid the attack. A warping sound was heard, and a wrathman, similar to those found only in the Soul Cairn, emerged from the portal.

"Did Beinaarkh do that?" Azura wondered.

"No," Tamsyn replied. "I think Kahvozein did. ' _Diil qoth zaam'_ translates to 'undead tomb slave.' It would appear Beinaarkh isn't the only one familiar with necromancy."

"This is bad! This is very bad!" Azura worried.

"Stay focused," Tamsyn said calmly. "We can do this. One thing at a time. If we take out Beinaarkh, he can't conjure any more undead."

"But Kahvozein is doing the same thing!" Azura protested.

Tamsyn nodded. "Yes, but he has to be in range to do it, and that means landing. Beinaarkh can float, but he can't fly. Watch your back. Let's split up and come at him from two sides."

Azura gave a jerk of her head in response and leaped agilely away from an attack by the approaching wrathman. Leading it away from the Arch-Mage, she headed towards an altar table set at the far end of the summit they were on, just beyond the now opened dragon mound.

Beinaarkh saw her movements and sent out a thunderbolt of electricity towards her. There was an ear-splitting _BOOM!_ and the scent of ozone once more filled the air. Azura was knocked backwards several feet, landing in another snowdrift, bruised and scorched. Grimly, she stood and swapped out Dukaan for Zakriisos before sending a fireball of her own in response, which bounced harmlessly off Beinaarkh's ward.

Tamsyn blasted the wrathman with a greater turning, to give herself time to think, and the creature recoiled and hurried away as fast as it could.

"Whew!" the Arch-Mage breathed. "I wasn't sure that would work!"

Scanning the area, she located Beinaarkh, but a shadow passed over her, and she realized that Kahvozein was the more immediate threat at this moment. The dragon inhaled, and Tamsyn threw up her ward to block his breath attack.

" _GAAN LAH HAAS!"_

It was the Drain Vitality Shout, Tamsyn knew, and she hated it. Wards were of no use here, and she could feel her strength, health and magicka waning. Calling upon her remaining reserves, she threw a dual-cast Incinerate at the dragon, and smiled in grim satisfaction as it choked on its next Shout. Floundering in midair, it clawed its way upwards and made a wide circle around the summit of the Temple, giving Tamsyn a few precious moments to swallow potions and cast Ebonyflesh on herself.

 _Which I should have done_ before _we came outside,_ she berated herself.

Another loud crack of lightning resounded, and Tamsyn looked up to see Beinaarkh heading her way, fleeing from a vengeful Bosmer Master Wizard. Azura was firing off Thunderbolts one after the other, in rapid-fire succession, and Tamsyn was impressed at her friend's precision. Each bolt slammed into Beinaarkh's fleeing form, causing the lich to stagger, and draining his reserves of magicka, making it harder for him to launch a counter-attack.

 _Time to double-team him,_ Tamsyn smiled, and threw everything she had at the lich from her side of the hilltop. Beinaarkh managed to put up a ward to stop Azura's attacks, but couldn't cover both sides of himself at once. He launched a fireball at Tamsyn, immolating her, but her Ebonyflesh held, and she was only lightly scorched. It still hurt, though.

" _DIIL QOTH ZAAM!"_

"Crap!" Azura blurted. "I wasn't watching the dragon!"

Another wrathman was conjuring into being, and it advanced on the Bosmer mage, forcing Azura to defend herself against its attacks, and leaving Beinaarkh to flee from her arcane assault. Tamsyn pursued the lich, still casting shock spells after him. He faltered, and Tamsyn dual-cast her Thunderbolt one last time, at which the lich shuddered and dissolved into ashes before her eyes.

Relieved, Tamsyn found Azura still battling the wrathman while trying to ward off Kahvozein's attacks. The dragon had landed and was snapping at the Bosmer mage with his two-foot-long incisors. Azura was backed up against one of the stone pillars ringing the dragon mound, a ward in one hand and a fire spell in the other. She was bleeding from several slashes courtesy of the ancient battleaxe the wrathman was using.

"Azura! Hold on!" Tamsyn cried. Mustering her magical energy, the Arch-Mage threw down a Guardian Circle, and the wrathman instantly disintegrated. Azura breathed a sigh of relief as healing energy poured into her. Kahvozein lifted himself into the air to circle around once more, now that his summoned had been so easily dismissed.

"Stick close to me," Tamsyn told her friend. "And take a moment to drink a potion. I'll keep an eye on that dragon."

Azura did as she was bid, rummaging quickly in her side satchel for the potions she kept there. It was more convenient than having to take off her backpack each time.

A dark shadow blotted out the sun, but Tamsyn was prepared this time. Using both hands as required by a Master-level spell, she launched a column of fire, like a flamethrower, straight into Kahvozein's face. The dragon twisted and turned his head to avoid it, but could only flap helplessly backwards to escape the onslaught.

Unable to gain altitude this time, Kahvozein was forced to land. He was looking decidedly scorched.

" _GAAN LAH HAAS!"_ he roared, catching both mages in his _thu'um_ this time, and both women staggered. The drain on their health wasn't as bad this time, however, since Tamsyn's Restoration spell was still in effect.

"This ends now!" Azura glared, drawing both swords. She waited until the dragon snaked his neck out to snap at them before leaping to his head, the way she had seen Marcus do on numerous occasions. Tamsyn kept up a volley of destruction spells as both daedric and stahlrim blades bit into and through the tough dragon scales. An ordinary person would have been knocked off from the dragon's movements to avoid the attacks, but Azura was a Bosmer, used to walking branches that moved of their own accord. Without needing to hold on with one hand, she maintained her balance and continued to rain down death from above on Kahvozein's head.

At last, finally, when both women were close to exhaustion, the dragon slumped one last time and lay still. There was no immolation here, no flaring of the soul. The dragon's body would lay here until it rotted, or until the Dragonborn came to claim its soul. Tamsyn made a mental note to herself to remind Marcus to come back here, to prevent anyone else from attempting to raise Kahvozein once more.

"Is it done?" Azura asked wearily.

"Yes," Tamsyn replied. "It's done. We took out both Beinaarkh and his dragon lord."

"Can we get back to the College then?" Azura asked. "I'm exhausted. And hungry," she added with a weak smile. "But mostly exhausted."

Several hours later found them in the Arch-Mage's quarters at the College of Winterhold. Enthir had joined them, and he kept one protective arm around his wife. Tamsyn had the book, _Under Winterhold,_ open on her desk.

"So, let me get this straight," Enthir mused, having read the book. "Beinaarkh was the Dragon Priest in charge of Skytemple Ruins – or simply, Sky Temple, as it was known in those days. And the ruler of that temple was Kahvozein. Beinaarkh owed his allegiance to the dragon."

"Right," Tamsyn affirmed. "According to this book, written by an anonymous historian, Beinaarkh overstepped his authority after Alduin was banished. The Dragon Priests were still trying to maintain control of their territories even after most of the dragons were killed by the Akaviri or went into hiding. The book says that Nofur Spear-Ear was the leader of a group of rebels who stormed the Temple and wiped out the priests. They killed Kahvozein and interrupted the ritual that would have allowed Beinaarkh to rise again as a lich. That's why they separated his body from the blood in that canopic jar."

"I don't understand why they didn't just pour it out," Enthir frowned. "That would have saved everyone a lot of trouble."

"It might not have been that easy to do, under the circumstances," Tamsyn shrugged. "For whatever reason, they decided to simply bind Beinaarkh to the Temple." She turned to Azura. "Remember that note we found with the jar?"

Azura nodded and quoted, _"'Blood of the traitor, Beinaarkh, unwillingly taken, seat of the power that broke his head. Separate forever so bones lie dead, and blue wings ne'er again glide.'_ I think it's safe to say the 'blue wings' they mentioned was Kahvozein."

"Yes, I think so, too," Tamsyn agreed. "That note seems to indicate they needed his blood for the binding to be effective."

"I'm sorry we killed Nofur, now, knowing the history," Azura said regretfully. "But honestly, he didn't leave us much choice."

"No," Tamsyn replied shaking his head. "In his preserved state, and charged with preventing Beinaarkh from escaping, Nofur couldn't have known we would never have willingly done that. In his mind, anyone entering that tomb was there to release that horror upon the world."

"And to be fair," Azura added, "we _did_ have the jar of blood with us."

"Well, this at least solves the riddle of why that was down there," Enthir mused thoughtfully, "and your experiences in the ruins of Old Winterhold explain quite a bit about what caused the Great Collapse. Seems it was an unfortunate natural event after all, in spite of what Jarl Korir thinks. But it still doesn't explain who Zenosha is, or how she was able to portal a sload into the Midden to gate in all those Oblivion creatures."

"I think we've been rather lax in our defenses of late," Tamsyn admitted. "That's something we'll have to remedy. In the meantime, let's get in touch with our associates in Bthardamz, Mzulft and Blackreach. See if any of them have had any particular breeches of security. I'm going to contact Marcus and let him know what's happened."

Enthir nodded, and he and Azura turned to leave. They were almost at the stairwell leading down when Azura turned back to the Arch-Mage.

"Tamsyn," she hesitated. "I…I was really scared this time. Are we going to be able to beat the Thalmor at their own game?"

Tamsyn felt her own stomach churn. "I hope so, Azura," she said. "I really hope so. We don't really have a choice."

* * *

 _[Author's Note: In the next chapter, Marcus and Dante continue searching for the Aetherium Forge. The Dominion airship is taken to Alftand, where a gleeful Sorine and Calcelmo begin work on dissecting the_ Star Shadow _, drafting new plans for additional airships. Will they be ready in time? Events are heating up; new alliances are made, and old ones are bolstered, on both sides of the conflict. Thanks for staying with me!]_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 5**

Nels was unconscious. His last spell cast had drawn on reserves he could ill afford to spend. Shielding the airbag that kept the _Star Shadow_ buoyant from incoming arrows and fireballs thrown at them by the agents of the Aldmeri Dominion had cost the veteran Redguard dearly, and he had collapsed on the deck. Marcus and Ruslan – a Nord merchant who knew a bit about sailing – had picked him up and carried him belowdecks before returning topside to help get the _Star Shadow_ away from the caldera in the southwestern part of the Reach where the Dominion had established a staging area clearly meant to funnel invasion troops into Skyrim. Phebe and Tanari were caring for him.

As soon as Arias assured the Dragonborn they were safe, and that he needed a more specific heading than "thataway," Marcus made his way below to pore over the charts the Thalmor had left behind. He found the Grey Fox in the Captain's cabin, already perusing them. M'aiq, the Guildmaster's Khajiit friend, was with him.

"Well, we did it," Marcus stated, still troubled over the recent turn of events. "We got away."

"Yes," Dante said, stroking the beard on his chin. "But this tells us something important: the Dominion may already be aware of what you're attempting to do with your dragons. This appears to be some sort of counter-measure."

"I've already thought of that," Marcus agreed, sobered by the knowledge. "I'm going to need to get in touch with—" He stopped, eyeing the Khajiit suspiciously.

"You do not need to worry about M'aiq," said the cat urbanely. "M'aiq knows much, and tells some, but he also knows when silence is the best answer."

"You can trust M'aiq," Dante assured him. "He and I go way back."

"I seem to recall having met you on a couple of occasions," Marcus frowned. "You aren't one of the caravanners, are you?"

The Khajiit shook his shaggy head, the earrings in his ears clinking softly. "M'aiq is friends with Ri'saad and his folk," M'aiq said, "but he prefers to go his own way."

"Good enough, then," Marcus smiled, and held out his hand. "Good to have you with us, M'aiq. And thanks for the assistance today. I guess I owe you one."

M'aiq took the Dragonborn's proffered hand and shook it. "M'aiq thinks it is good to have a dragon on his side."

"Now then," Marcus resumed, "I'll have to let Jarl Balgruuf know about this. He can inform the rest of the ranking members of the Alliance. I might even get him to agree to let us drop off everyone in Whiterun. I really don't want to haul all of them to our base."

"That's a good idea," Dante agreed. "Though I'm thinking a few of them, at least, might want to join your cause."

"We can put it to them," Marcus nodded. "I won't turn anyone down who really wants to fight the Dominion."

"We still need to find the other pieces of this Aetherium key," Dante said, pulling it out of his belt pouch.

"M'aiq has heard of this," the cat said, his yellow eyes widening in awe. "The Thalmor are looking for something they called the 'Aetherium Forge.' They believe it to be here in Skyrim."

"All the more reason to find it before they do," Marcus said. "Let me make a few calls, and maybe we can figure out what to do next."

His first call, through his earbud – which, thankfully, the Thalmor had not confiscated, assuming it to be a simple silver stud earring of little value – was to Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun.

" _A ship that flies through the air?"_ he murmured in awe through Marcus' stud. He had turned up the volume so Dante could also hear. M'aiq had gone on deck, claiming the cabin made him feel 'closed in.'

"That's what I said, my Jarl," Marcus confirmed. "We don't yet know how many the Dominion has, but we've got a couple dozen people here who want to get back to their homes. Can we bring them to Whiterun?"

" _Of course, Marcus,"_ Balgruuf replied. _"But…where are you going to park that thing? I mean, how much space do you need? And once you bring it down, will you be able to take it back into the skies again?"_

"I think I can answer all your questions, my Jarl," Marcus grinned, "if you let us use the Great Porch to disembark our passengers. It would mean they'd have to pass through Dragonsreach to get into the town, but—"

" _Don't you worry about that, Dragonborn,"_ Balgruuf assured him. _"I'll notify Irileth to make arrangements to have them escorted down to the town. From there, they can return to their homes and their lives."_

"Good," Marcus said. "And you'll let the leaders of the Alliance know what happened?"

" _I will,"_ Balgruuf promised. _"This may require an immediate war council, you realize. I think we already know what Ulfric will say about this."_

Marcus sighed. "Yeah, I think you're right. But we can't take the bait the Thalmor are dangling if they're testing our strength. We need to know we're not alone in this."

"Leave that to me," Dante said. "I'm awaiting word from my second any time now. I may even have some answers by the time we reach Whiterun."

" _How soon do you think you'll be here?"_ Balgruuf asked. _"I'll admit, I'm eager to see this 'flying ship' of yours."_

"It's slower than a dragon," Marcus said, "and not as maneuverable, but it has some armaments, like ballistae, that would make even a dragon pause going up against it. I'd say we can be there in about six hours, if the winds hold their course. They're blowing in from the west right now."

" _We'll be ready for you, Dragonborn. And you as well, Councilor defer,"_ Balgruuf promised before signing off.

"I think I'm going to take some time to familiarize myself with the ship," Dante said, running his hand across the railing of the stairs leading up to the deck. "It's going to be hard to give her up."

"Give her up?" Marcus queried.

"Yes," Dante said sadly. "I know the best course of action is to take her to Alftand, to your Dwemer researchers there – what were their names again?"

"Sorine Jurard and Calcelmo," Marcus supplied.

"Yes, them," Dante nodded. "And of course, the first thing they'll want to do it tear her apart to see what makes her tick, so they can potentially make more ships like her. Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire. If the Dominion has a fleet of these, we'll need to build our own. The dragons are a great idea, and we shouldn't abandon that. They're something the Dominion won't have, and they'll have tactics the Thalmor can't duplicate. But a fleet of our own airships…" His voice trailed off, and a slight smile crossed his face as his grey eyes took on a faraway look.

"I know what you mean," Marcus said softly, looking around. "It'll be a shame to dismantle her, but we need to know how she was put together in the first place."

Marcus went up on deck to speak to Arias, to give him his new heading.

"Whiterun?" the Imperial Marine echoed, raising his eyebrows. "Well, I suppose that's as good a place as any. But why there? Surely Falkreath is closer?"

Marcus only just managed to keep from blurting out his opinion of Falkreath's Jarl, Siddgeir. "Dragonsreach has a Great Porch," he explained, "which will make it easier to get everyone off so they can return to their homes. We won't have to descend all the way to the ground, either. We just have to make sure we get close enough to the Porch wall for the ramp to reach, and then we have to keep the ship in position."

"The anchor lines will help with that," Arias said, pointing to the coils of rope with the grappling hooks attached.

"Why didn't they use them back at the caldera?" Marcus asked.

Arias shrugged. "Beats me. Might have something to do with stored magicka. I don't pretend to know everything about this ship."

"What will you do, once we get to Whiterun?" Marcus asked now, watching the Imperial carefully.

Arias hesitated. "Well…" He blew out a breath. "I really should get back to my Legion," he said. "But…"

"But?" Marcus prompted.

Arias let his gaze wander over the airship. "It's just…I never imagined something like this could exist, you know? And I think I'm really going to be sad when I have to give it up. And besides," he grinned, "as long as you're pissing off the Aldmeri Dominion, I'd kind of like to throw my lot in with you."

Marcus chuckled and clapped his fellow Imperial on the shoulder. "Well, as it happens, I know General Tullius," he said. "I'll see if I can't get him to arrange a transfer for you to become an auxiliary for us."

Arias' eyes widened, and his face split into a broad grin. "I think I'd like that very much!" he enthused.

" _Marcus, my love, are you there?"_

Marcus recognized Tamsyn's voice right away. Knowing Arias couldn't have heard his wife, he excused himself to find a quiet corner in which to converse.

"I'm here, sweetheart," he murmured, as he settled himself at the prow of the ship. "What's going on? Did you find the sload?"

" _No,"_ came the disappointing answer. She gave him a brief summary of what she and Azura had encountered below the College in the ruins of Old Winterhold.

"Yikes!" Marcus exclaimed softly. "A lich, you say? And a dragon? So Zenosha wasn't the cause of it all?"

" _Not all of it,"_ Tamsyn replied. _"I'm sure she had a hand in getting the sload in there in the first place, as Julia warned us, but by the time we closed the gates, the sload had already made his escape."_

"So, she's still out there, somewhere," Marcus frowned. "Damn it."

" _All we can do is wait for her to make the next move,"_ Tamsyn said. _"I prefer being proactive, rather than reactive, but at this point, there's not much we can do until she surfaces again. How did your trip to Arkngthamz go?"_

Marcus hesitated, unsure of how much to tell her. But he decided honesty was the best policy – especially where his clairvoyant wife was concerned – so he told her everything.

" _I'm so relieved you got away!"_ she breathed. _"And you commandeered an airship away from them? An actual, Dwemer airship that flies? That's amazing!"_

"It's really more Altmer than Dwemer," Marcus clarified, "but yeah, it was quite the adventure. We're on our way to Whiterun now, to drop off the people the Thalmor were holding."

" _I'm glad you were able to free them,"_ said Tamsyn. _"And happier still that the Grey Fox agreed to it."_

"Yeah, me too," Marcus murmured. "It makes me feel a bit better about him possibly becoming the next Emperor."

" _I don't think there's any 'possible' about it, love,"_ Tamsyn told him. _"The path we're on right now, he_ will _be Emperor – if he survives."_

"What do you mean, 'if he survives'?" Marcus queried. "The guy's stealthing skills are amazing. Can there be any doubt?"

" _Actually, yes,"_ Tamsyn said soberly. _"There will come a critical point where, if things go wrong, he could die, and the Dominion would still win this."_

"What point?" Marcus demanded. "We can't let that happen!"

" _I can't tell you any more right now, darling. I'm sorry."_

Marcus knew his wife. All the pleading and cajoling and sweet-talking in the world would not get her to reveal what she knew, if she felt it was too soon to do so. He would have to trust that she would let him know the important things in time to respond.

" _I'm going to come to Whiterun, Marcus,"_ she said now. _"I really want to see the airship 'in person', as it were. Besides, if Balgruuf_ does _send out a request for a war council, I'd have to be there anyway. I'll see you soon, my love!"_

She signed off, and Marcus sat back, brooding on her warning. Could it be possible? Could they take the fight all the way to the Dominion, only to lose the one person who might be able to bring the Empire back together? He frowned.

 _No!_ he told himself grimly. _I might not agree with everything Greyshadow has done in his past, but he_ is _Titus Mede's grandson, and the next heir to the Ruby Throne. If I have to dog his steps from now until he parks his ass on that overly-ornate piece of furniture, that's what I'll do!_

Resolved, he headed back down to the cargo hold where Phebe and Tanari were caring for Nels. The older Redguard was finally awake, though still weakened. The two women politely left the two men alone, claiming they had other passengers to tend to.

"Dragonborn!" Nels' face lit up upon seeing him. "Thanks for coming to see me! Is everyone alright?"

"They're all fine, Nels," Marcus smiled. "That was some kind of stunt you pulled out there, though. Who told you to tap out your magicka just to save the rest of us?"

Nels chuckled weakly. "That's a trick I learned from my days as a Sword Singer," he said.

"Sword Singer?" Marcus echoed. "I didn't think they existed anymore!"

"There aren't many of us," Nels admitted. "I'm one of the few left. I'm not even sure how many are still out there. Some lost their lives in the Great War."

"I've read the book _Redguards, Their History and Their Heroes,"_ Marcus offered. "It mentions Sword Singers, but really only tells how they came to be."

Nels nodded. "That book is about the founder of our order, Frandar Hunding. But I'm not surprised it doesn't go into a lot of detail. That sort of thing is closely guarded, and really only meant to be passed down from master to pupil." A fleeting look of sadness crossed the old Redguard's face.

"So that's how you were able to whirl your blade around during combat," Marcus commented. "I caught that much of your fight with the Justiciar."

Again, Nels nodded. "It's one of our oldest techniques. It confuses your enemy and puts them off guard, allowing you to take advantage of their distraction."

"Can you teach me?" Marcus asked eagerly. He had been in Skyrim almost eight years now, and in all that time, he had thrown himself into learning all he could of swordsmanship. His time with the Companions, as Harbinger, as well as the time spent with Knight-Paladin Gelebor in the Forgotten Vale, had honed his skills beyond expert level. Though he had trained with all weapons and shields, in order to become comfortable with any weapon style, his strength and his forte was with one-handed weapons, particularly swords.

"I suppose I could teach you a few things, at some point," Nels mused. "It's the least I can do to thank you for getting me out of there. But I was really hoping to pass my knowledge along to my son, if he's even still alive."

"I'm sorry," Marcus said sincerely. "What happened to your son?"

Nels sighed and looked away. "It's not something I'm proud of," he said. "I left him behind when I fought in the Great War. After the War was over, and Hammerfell fought on against the Dominion, I continued to stay with the Redguard army. I learned that Taneth had fallen to the Dominion, and they were putting people to the sword."

"What's this about Taneth?"

Dante Greyshadow came down the ladder into the hold and approached the two men.

"I thought you were helping to power this thing?" Marcus inquired.

"I did," the Guildmaster replied, "but they've got it under control at the moment."

"Master Greyshadow," Nels nodded, acknowledging him. "Thank you for helping us."

"You're welcome," Dante bowed before seating himself on a nearby box. "You were talking about Taneth?"

Nels was silent for a moment, appearing to wrestle with some interior struggle. Finally, he shrugged. "My wife and son were living in Taneth during the Great War," he continued his narrative. "My son was only a baby at the time, just barely walking. Adrine was killed by the Thalmor when they took over the city. I don't know what happened to Cyrus, my little boy. I assume they killed him, too."

Dante stiffened. "Did you say, 'Cyrus'?" he asked.

"That was his name, yes," Nels said, eyes narrowing. "I know it's a common Redguard name. Many sons are named Cyrus in honor of our hero, Cyrus the Restless. You've met someone with that name?"

Dante's face was impassive. "Before I answer that, let me ask you this, Nels: are you a member of House Suda?"

There was an audible gasp from the man on the bedroll. "How could you know that?" he breathed. "I have never told anyone my House name!"

"Why?" Marcus asked, starting to put two and two together.

Nels shrugged tiredly. "I am something of a – what do you Imperials call it? A 'black sheep' to my family. My father was a younger son, and his older brother was the head of our household. As such, it was my uncle's responsibility to dictate which path our lives would take, especially since my father died when I was still a young man. I did not like the path Uncle Murat chose for me, and instead left home to make my own way in the world."

"And your Uncle Murat was Vezir Murat at-Suda, of Taneth," Dante stated.

Nels nodded warily. "I don't know how you know of this," he said, "but yes. I suppose there's no reason to hide it. My cousin, Iman, was accused of betraying the city by allowing the Thalmor entrance. Many have said the city could have withstood the Dominion's forces, had she not done so." His brow furrowed in anger. "My beloved Adrine might still be alive today."

Dante crossed his arms and smiled. "It may interest you to know," he said diffidently, "that your cousin Iman did not, in fact, betray Taneth."

Nels' eyes widened. "No?"

Dante shook his head. "No. I was in Hammerfell, three years ago, on a diplomatic mission. While I was there, I…conducted some research into Hammerfell's more recent history. It seems the real traitor of Taneth was Prince Azanir himself. He let the Dominion into the city and pinned the blame on Iman."

"Prince Azanir!" Nels breathed. "Why would he do that?"

"Greed, probably," Dante shrugged. "I'm sure the Thalmor offered him something he couldn't resist. In any case, it's all been cleared up now. Everyone knows the truth, including the Crown and the Forebears."

He smiled to himself. Revealing the depths of duplicity with which Azanir had sunk had the pleasant side effect of not only clearing both Saadia's and Cyrus' names, but restoring House Suda to their former prominence. Saadia's father, Qadim, had been profusely grateful to Councilor de Fer of the Imperial Court, and had promised to use his influence in persuading the two Redguard factions, the Crown and the Forebears, to put aside their animosity to work towards a greater good.

Saadia, rather than returning to Hammerfell, had opted to stay in Whiterun, and Dante felt a quickening of his pulse, knowing he would see her again soon.

"I can't believe this!" Nels exclaimed, struggling to sit up. "Is this true? And why would you, a Breton, go to all the trouble of finding this out?"

Marcus answered before Dante could shrug it off. "You might as well tell him, Greyshadow," he said. Turning to Nels he explained. "Greyshadow is a name he uses outside of the Imperial Court. He's really Lance de Fer, Councilor to His Imperial Majesty Titus Mede the First. And he went to Hammerfell three years ago to patch things up with them over the Empire abandoning them during the Great War. With the Dominion building up for the next Great War, we need all the allies we can get."

Nels nodded slowly. "That makes sense, I guess. That's why you wanted to steal the airship?" he asked.

"It's one of the reasons," Dante admitted. He was also privately relieved the Dragonborn hadn't completely given him away. It would seem the younger Imperial knew the meaning of the word 'discretion.'

"Well, if I can be of any help to you in fighting the Dominion, you have my sword," Nels promised. "I owe them a lot of payback for Adrine."

Dante exchanged a look with Marcus, who was grinning madly. "I was hoping you'd say that!" the Dragonborn exclaimed.

"There's just one other thing I need to tell you," Dante said, relenting. "I met your son, Cyrus, when I was in Hammerfell. He'd been framed for murder, and I helped him to uncover the truth."

Nels' eyes suddenly became very soft. "Cyrus…my boy…he's alive?" He laid back, emotions completely overcoming him. "My boy…my Cyrus…I can't believe it! How?"

"I'm not sure," Dante admitted. "You might have to ask him that, when you see him. I know he was living with his aunt and uncle, Saadia's – I mean, _Iman's_ parents, when the incident occurred."

"Wait," Nels said sharply, having caught Dante's slip. "You said her name – Iman's name – was Saadia?"

Dante nodded. "She went into hiding and changed her name. It seems some Alik'r assassins were sent after her when she refused marriage to a couple other Houses. Somehow, the Alik'r confused her with the Iman who was believed to have betrayed Taneth. I…made sure they wouldn't trouble her again."

Nels shook his head. "My friend, it seems I owe you a debt of gratitude I may never be able to pay."

"We'll discuss that later," Dante assured him. "Just know that she prefers to be called 'Saadia' now, and she's living in Whiterun. You'll get to see her soon."

"Yes, but will she want to see me?" Nels wondered sadly. "Will Cyrus? I thought he was dead, and I never went back to Hammerfell to find out more. It was…too painful."

"We'll let you rest," Marcus said promptly, rising. Dante followed him.

"I don't envy the conversation he's going to have with his kin," Marcus ventured, shaking his head. "To stay away for almost thirty years, and not even try to find out if your family is okay?"

"I understand where he's coming from," Dante said, calmly, not elaborating. "Still, if the family doesn't want him back, we could always use another good spellsword."

"He's not just any spellsword," Marcus informed his companion, "He's a Sword Singer."

Dante gasped.

"You're kidding!" he exclaimed. At Marcus' nod of confirmation, Dante shook his head in wonder. "I didn't know there were any still around. I've read they were formidable fighters."

"Yeah," Marcus agreed. "And if he's willing to impart some of his expertise to our troops…"

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Dragonborn," Dante cautioned. "First of all, it took _years_ for a warrior to become a Sword Singer, from what I've read. We may not have that much time."

"I know," Marcus nodded. "But we already have some talented spellswords in our army."

"There's a world of difference between someone who can cast spells while they swing a sword, and someone whose very discipline is centered on becoming one with their weapon."

Marcus knew Greyshadow made a very good point, but he wasn't going to let it dampen his enthusiasm.

"What have you learned about the ship?" he asked the Breton man now.

"Several things," Dante grinned. "For one, you see those ballistae on either side?" He pointed them out. Marcus nodded. "They have – for lack of a better term – magical dampers on them."

"Dampers?"

"Yes," the Guildmaster explained. "On a regular sailing ship, the ballistae are held in place on wheeled carts set into a track. When they're fired, the entire cart kicks back from the recoil."

Marcus nodded. Cannons on old sailing ships in his old world did the same. There was often a block behind the rear wheels keeping them from recoiling too far. It didn't help during storms, however. The cannons often broke loose, rolling back and forth across decks, crushing sailors.

"The magical dampers," Dante continued, "keep the ballistae from recoiling at all. Movement like that might throw the airship off course."

"That makes sense," Marcus said. "Anything else?"

"Oh, plenty," Dante grinned. "Apparently this is still relatively new to the Dominion, as well. Not all their agents know how to pilot a ship like this. My second, Reydin Glane, tells me that down in Elsweyr they have perhaps only a score or so of these airships to cover the entire Province."

"But they were using this one to help build that staging area down there in the Reach," Marcus said. "That means they may have more moving to and fro from Skyrim to the Summerset Isles. From the size of that complex, even if it was mostly empty, they could have smuggled in thousands of Dominion operatives to invade Skyrim."

"Perhaps," Dante agreed. "But movements like that would have been noticed. I'm sure they were using the cover of darkness, as we're doing, to avoid observations. But during the daytime? Anyone traveling the Hammerfell-Cyrodiil border just has to look up to see what's flying overhead. And in Skyrim, looking up has become a matter of habit!"

Marcus chuckled in spite of himself. "Yeah, dragons will do that to you."

"It's more than likely they were using the airship to bring in supplies to build their staging area in that dormant volcano," Dante surmised. "Which means there very well could be other facilities like that throughout the Jeralls."

"And we'd never know it, because the only easy way through the mountains is the Pale Pass," Marcus nodded. "And that's held by the Empire at the moment."

"Exactly," Dante concurred. "It would be – not easy, mind you – but possible for the Dominion to set up a string of airship stations like that one in order to facilitate moving their troops into Skyrim. The southwestern part of the Reach is mostly unpopulated, except by the Reachfolk, whom the Dominion discounts as 'savages.'"

"They don't take them as a serious threat," Marcus stated. "Which is a glaring oversight on their part, but it may work to our advantage. It's one reason I was keen to get Madanach on our side."

Dante smiled. "I bow to your foresight, Dragonborn," he said, bending a little at the waist. "You obviously saw their potential more clearly than I did. Certainly, more clearly than the Dominion."

"I'll get word to Madanach right away," Marcus said. "He can get his people to start combing that area of the Reach and sniff out any more Dominion outposts like that one."

"Won't he be at the council Balgruuf intends to call?"

"Yes," Marcus nodded, "but I think we want our own operatives working on this sooner, rather than later."

Dante smiled smugly. "You're learning, Dragonborn," he said. "You're learning."

The 'war council,' as Balgruuf had called it, took place hours after their arrival in Whiterun. The airship was the wonder of the world as Arias rather unsteadily maneuvered it into position just off the Great Porch just as the sun rose from behind the Velothi Mountains, far to the east.

"I'll get better at that," Arias muttered his apology as Tobias, Ruslan and some others threw the grappling lines over the side to pull them closer to the Porch wall. Marcus patted his shoulder.

"This is new to all of us," he said in reassurance.

Once everyone was unloaded and escorted through Dragonsreach into the town of Whiterun, proper, Balgruuf insisted on a tour of the ship. Marcus had given each of the former prisoners a small pouch of gold to help them on their way, and Balgruuf had ordered his kitchens to pack up food for each refugee which would easily keep for a prolonged journey; breads, cheeses, dried meats and fruits, and bottles of Nord mead and fruit juices.

Arias gulped in the presence of so many dignitaries. His experience with ranking offices and nobles had been minimal before he was captured. Now he was suddenly thrust into a cadre of important people, most of whom he had only heard about.

Besides Balgruuf, Marcus and Dante, High King Ulfric Stormcloak had joined them, as well as Madanach the Reach King, the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold – who appeared to be the wife of the Dragonborn – and (here was the personage who made Arias the most nervous) the Legion Commander himself, General Tullius.

"Report, soldier!" Tullius barked, and Arias saluted sharply.

"Sir, reporting for duty, sir!" Arias gulped again.

Tullius gave a slight smile. "At ease, soldier," he said. "Tell us what you know. What company are you with?"

"Second Legion, Fifth Cohort, sir," Arias replied. "I was with a patrol sweeping the Colovian Highlands after reports of unusual activity in that area."

"I read those reports," Tullius frowned. "Unusual lights at night, unexplained sounds. We didn't take them seriously. So where is your patrol?"

"Gone, sir," Arias answered, his face impassive. "I'm the last. We were approaching Lipsand Tarn, north of Chorral, when we were attacked by Dominion forces. Our commander was the first to die. The rest of us fought as hard as we could, but…"

"It's alright, soldier," Tullius said kindly. "So, you were captured?"

"Yes, sir," Arias responded. "I suppose they thought I was unconscious, and I'm not even sure why they took me captive. It was never explained to me. They threw me into the control cabin of the airship. I remember one of them said the 'cargo hold was too full.'"

"And you managed to feign unconsciousness long enough to observe how they operated this ship?" Tullius smiled. "That's brilliant work, son! There will be a promotion for you in this! I'll make the recommendation to his Imperial Majesty as soon as we return to Cyrodiil."

Arias' face fell a little, and seeing this, Marcus spoke up.

"With all due respect, General," he began, "I think Arias would be more valuable to our cause by continuing to learn more about piloting this airship. We still don't know what we don't know, and Arias _did_ manage to sail us away from the Dominion base, and get us to Whiterun. That's a talent and a skill that shouldn't be wasted on a foot soldier."

General Tullius considered this. "You're right, Dragonborn. What was your rank, soldier?"

"Sir, I was a Corporal, sir," Arias answered. "Before joining the Second Legion, I spent sixteen years in the Imperial Navy as a Lieutenant."

"Why the change?" Tullius asked, curious.

"My father was dying," Arias said. "He needed my help. Leaving the navy and joining the Legion allowed me to be closer to him, to take care of him before he died."

Tullius nodded, clapping Arias on the shoulder. "Well, it's clear you've been a loyal citizen of the Empire, young Arias. I hereby give you a field promotion to Captain of the – what did you say her name was?"

"The _Star Shadow,"_ Marcus and Arias said together, grinning.

"Yes, well, congratulations, Captain," Tullius smiled, shaking Arias' hand. "I'll be sure to fill out the required paperwork when I get back to the Imperial City." He turned to rejoin Balgruuf and Ulfric discussing the construction of the airship.

"Thank you, sir!" Arias beamed, saluting yet again. Marcus clapped him on the back.

"Congratulations, Arias – I mean, _Captain_ Arias," he enthused. "I'm happy for you!"

"I can't believe it!" Arias said, bemused. "There's so much to do! I'll need to get a crew together, and there are things we're going to need to get her ready for battle – not the least of which will be ways to keep people from falling over the side in mid-flight!" His eyes widened a bit at the horror of that possibility.

"Talk to my wife," Marcus encouraged. "I know she'll have a solution."

Arias looked around the ship soberly. "Do you still think they'll take her apart?" he asked.

Marcus shrugged helplessly. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I mean, she's literally our only prototype."

"That's not entirely true, dear," Tamsyn said, coming up to them, and catching the last part of this conversation.

"What do you mean?" Marcus queried.

"In Moesring Pass, on Solstheim, there's the wreck of another Dwemer airship. It's been taken over by rieklings, of course, but if we could somehow get that to Calcelmo and Sorine, you wouldn't need to sacrifice the _Star Shadow_ for the purposes of research."

Marcus didn't ask how she knew the airship would be there.

"Moesring Pass," he mused. "Wasn't that where the Snow Prince fell?"

Tamsyn nodded. "Yes, and the battle that was fought there between the Nords and the Snow Elves was one of the bloodiest battles in Tamriel's history. Airships weren't used in that battle, however, as they were Dwemer constructions, and the Dwemer weren't involved in that fight. The airship that's still there is thought to be the wreckage of the Patchwork Airship, commanded by Captain Roberto Jodoin. In any case, we should make an effort to either bring it to Alftand, or send an expedition there to examine it."

"We can talk to Calcelmo about it later," Marcus promised. "Let's see what he thinks."

"As for ways of keeping your crew from going overboard," Tamsyn continued, turning to Captain Arias, "I think I can help with that. Give me some time to get my top enchanters working on some things to mitigate that."

"Thank you, Arch-Mage!" Arias said gratefully. Tamsyn smiled warmly.

"We're all in this together," she assured him. "Everyone has to do their part."

Now, a few hours later, the key members of the Alliance were seated around a long table in Jarl Balgruuf's private quarters. Balgruuf, as the de facto leader, had taken the seat at the top of the table, with Ulfric Stormcloak to his left and Marcus to his right. General Tullius was seated next to Marcus, and Dante Greyshadow sat next to him, with Tamsyn on Ulfric's left and Madanach next to her. The last seat, at the end of the table, remained empty.

Everyone had had an opportunity to tour the _Star Shadow,_ and after Tamsyn had assured herself from Ulfric that Elisif's third pregnancy was going well, they settled down to business.

"Here's what we know," Balgruuf began. "The Thalmor set up a base of operations within Skyrim's borders in the Reach, unknown to any of us. We have to assume there may be more of these."

"How are we going to find them, if they're using magic to hide them?" Ulfric demanded. His dislike of magic was a typical Nord reaction, but it was a legitimate question.

"I've already ordered Benor at Dragonpeak Eyrie to begin flying sweeps over the Velothi and Jerall Mountains down in his area," Marcus said, tapping his ear. "If they find anything suspicious, he'll let me know."

"My Matriarchs inform me of large concentrations of magic in several spots along the Skyrim-Hammerfell border," Madanach said. "The largest concentration, however, seems to be in the Falkreath area."

"Falkreath?" Tamsyn exclaimed. "That's Siddgeir's Hold."

"It's well known that little toady has a grudge against us," Ulfric rumbled. "He pays lip-service to the Empire, but he's always had his own ambitions."

"I don't think he's forgiven any of us for what happened at the Moot," Tamsyn agreed unhappily.

"Losing an election to become High King of Skyrim is one thing," Tullius frowned. "But if he is consorting with the Dominion, that's treason."

"I'll kill him myself, in that case," Ulfric promised.

"We don't have proof, Ulfric. Forgive me," Tullius said belatedly at Ulfric's glare. _"Your Majesty."_

Ulfric's lip curled, and Tamsyn put a soothing hand on his arm, which glowed faintly, and Marcus knew she'd just touched him with a calming spell. _Can she do that to the High King?_ he wondered. In any other circumstance, it might have been tantamount to an unprovoked attack on his royal person, but Ulfric seemed to let it slide. In any case, Tamsyn threw a stern look at Tullius that clearly ordered him to 'behave' himself. Tullius arched an eyebrow innocently.

"General Tullius is correct," Tamsyn said. "We have no proof that Siddgeir has thrown his lot in with the Dominion, but the heightened magical activity in his area – especially since he's never been known to indulge in that sort of thing – bears watching."

"Someone's going to have to look into it," Madanach insisted. "We can't let something like that fester in our own back yard."

"I can do that," Dante replied, but Marcus shook his head.

"You and I are going to be busy, looking for that Aetherium Forge," he insisted, and Dante reluctantly nodded.

"I can go to Falkreath," Tamsyn said, surprising them. "With the exception of the Matriarchs in the Reach, I'm probably the most qualified anyway to look into all things magical."

Marcus would have protested the risks, but Madanach spoke up.

"What is this 'Aetherium Forge' you've been going on about?" he asked.

Marcus and Dante exchanged looks past General Tullius, who also furrowed his brow.

"Yes, I'd like to know more about this as well," the General said, with the tone of a man who feels he's been kept out of the loop.

"I think we all need a briefing on that, Dragonborn," Ulfric rumbled. "I've read the book, _The Aetherium Wars,_ but it sounds like you're pursuing a fairy tale."

"It's real," Dante said, pulling something from his belt pouch. "We have pretty conclusive proof that it exists." He set the piece of the Aetherium key on the table in front of him, and all except Marcus and Tamsyn gasped.

"Is that…is that aetherium?" Balgruuf wondered. "That's the stuff we've been seeing in Blackreach?"

"It is," Marcus nodded. "The Dwemer used this ore to make some of their most powerful artifacts. Now, only this piece, and possibly three others similar to it, remain."

"What makes you think there are more of them?" Tullius demanded, skeptical.

"To begin with," Tamsyn replied, reaching into her side satchel, "I have two more of the pieces here." She pulled them out and laid them next to the one Dante had placed down. There was stunned silence around the table. It was Marcus who spoke first.

"Tamsyn…sweetheart," he said, his eyes never leaving the pieces that Dante was attempting to fit together. "When were you going to tell me you had these?"

"I was waiting for the right moment, dearest," she soothed. "That time is now. There's one more piece to be found, before you can look for the Forge."

"What will these pieces do?" Madanach asked, turning one of the pieces over in his hands, fascinated by the power he felt coming from the shards.

"On their own, nothing," Tamsyn said. "They need to be fitted together as a key to unlock the Forge. Marcus and Dante are on the right track to find it. The last piece can be found in Raldbthar."

"You're sure of that?" Dante queried, lifting an eyebrow. At the glare she threw him, he put up his hands. "Sorry! Sorry, I forgot!" and gave her his most charming smile. Tamsyn relented.

"Yes, I'm sure," she nodded. "Just as I'm sure you'll meet your ghostly friend again, who was helping you. I found one of those pieces in the storage room just outside Mzulft, when I went there with Cicero, back before I became Arch-Mage." Her expression grew wistful. "I knew it was there, so I went out to Deep Folk Crossing, north of Bthardamz, to get the other piece. They were the easiest two to find. I always wanted to get to Arkngthamz, to meet Katria, and help her prove her theory, but I never could find the time to do it." She sighed. "I envy the both of you."

"Wait," Ulfric interrupted, "you said 'Katria'. You mean the woman to whom the book was dedicated?"

"Yes," Marcus answered for Tamsyn. "All the research in that book was done by her. Taron Dreth was her apprentice, and stole her notes, publishing it under his own name. She died in Arkngthamz, trying to find the Forge, but her spirit can't rest until we can prove it was _her_ work, and not Taron Dreth's.

Ulfric frowned, troubled. For all his arguable faults, he was a man of honor and integrity. He disliked liars and charlatans.

"So, what can this 'Aetherium Forge' do?" Tullius demanded. "Why are we wasting resources trying to find it?"

"Was it a waste of resources to look for the Jagged Crown, General?" Marcus demanded. "You wanted Rikke to go after it before the Civil War was resolved, to keep it out of Ulfric's hands."

Ulfric glared at the General across the table, but Tullius ignored him.

"I know I said that in the beginning," the General admitted, "but in the end, Rikke proved correct. The Crown was there, and giving it to Elisif was the right thing to do."

In spite of himself, Ulfric chuckled. "She hates that thing, by the way," he smiled. "She says it's too heavy and gives her a headache."

Laughter rippled around the room, easing the tension.

"To answer your question, General," Tamsyn said, "the real question is 'what _can't_ the Aetherium Forge do?' And what could it potentially do in the hands of the Dominion, who might understand it more than we do?"

"There is that," Tullius admitted.

"I think there's no question that the Dragonborn and I have to find this Forge," Dante said slowly. "At all costs, we need to keep it out of the hands of the Aldmeri Dominion. The fact that Blackreach is sitting on the largest deposit of aetherium is reason enough to double the security there."

"We're already stretched thin," Balgruuf pointed out.

"You've got that fancy new flying ship out there," Madanach pointed out. "Put it to some good use and start patrolling the skies. Keep an eye out for troop movements on the ground. I keep lookouts on practically every mountaintop in the Reach. If something happens in my land, my people report it, and I know about it before another hour passes."

"We've got other concerns, as well," Balgruuf reminded them, eyeing Madanach carefully. "There's a possibility of friction within the Blades. It seems there are some who don't take kindly to being told to leave the dragons alone."

"So, boot them out," Madanach shrugged. "The Dragonborn has given his orders. If they disobey, put them in irons until this whole thing is over."

Balgruuf exchanged a look with Marcus, who gave a sigh of exasperation before replying. "It's Delphine, Madanach," he said finally. "Delphine has been undermining my authority at Sky Haven Temple."

Silence. Madanach paled visibly.

"I don't believe you," the Reach King whispered. "She knows what's at stake here! She's been in on all the planning sessions up to this point. Why would she do something like that to us? To _me?"_

That told Marcus everything he needed to hear. Madanach had no idea his lover had betrayed their trust. Delphine had kept it even from him.

"I'm sorry, Madanach," he said. "If there were any other way to break it to you more easily, I would have done it."

The old Reachman looked around at the faces surrounding the table. Most were sympathetic; a few were pitying. He rejected the pity.

"It makes sense, now, when I think on it," he said. "Delphine has been 'too busy' to come see me, she said. I think this has been building for quite some time. I thought perhaps she'd just gotten tired of me."

Tamsyn put her arm around his shoulder gently, and he didn't reject the gesture, but instead patted her hand in thanks. "I'm an old fool," he muttered. "Kaie tried to tell me."

"You're no fool, Madanach," Tamsyn soothed. "I don't think Delphine really loved anyone. Being a Blade is all she's ever known. When she first found Marcus, she thought she could mold him into the perfect dragon-killing machine, but she soon found he has a mind of his own. That didn't sit well with her."

"This problem with the Dominion is far more dangerous than the dragons, though," Madanach complained. "How can she not see that? I should talk to her—"

" _NO!"_

Several people around the table spoke at once. It was Marcus who continued.

"Madanach, I'm sorrier than you can imagine about this," he said. "But if you go to Delphine now to clear the air, you tip our hand to her. I need to make sure she doesn't go on a rampage—"

"I can stop her from doing that, Dragonborn," Madanach frowned. "Her actions have put my hope of regaining my land at risk."

"How do you figure that one?" Ulfric asked.

Madanach snorted derisively. "If the Dragonborn, here, doesn't get his dragon air force, as he calls it, and the Dominion has airships, how long do you think your ground troops can stand against the Dominion?"

Ulfric sat back, abashed. He hadn't considered that. Up until now, he'd thought the entire idea of training dragons and riders to be a waste of resources. Dragons were fiercely independent, and predisposed to dominance in their own right. He'd spent enough time at High Hrothgar to know that. But if there was the slightest chance that the Dragonborn was correct, and that dragons and humans could work together, it made them – combined – into a formidable force with which to be reckoned. Even if they hadn't known about the airships before now, the scope of Marcus' plans finally crystalized in his mind, and he nodded.

"You're right, of course," he finally said. "And I apologize for not throwing all my support behind this idea up until now."

"No apology necessary, Your Majesty," Marcus assured him. "But Madanach, I beg you, please wait until I've had a chance to speak to Delphine. Maybe I can straighten her out."

The Reach King chuckled mirthlessly. "And maybe pigs will fly," he said sourly. At Marcus' pleading look, however, he relented. "Alright, Dragonborn," he sighed. "I'll play the waiting game a while longer. It's what I'm good at," he finished, bitterly.

General Tullius cleared his throat. "To get back to my earlier question," he began diffidently, "assuming you find this Forge, and have enough of the aetherium to make something from it, what, exactly, does it do?"

All eyes turned to the Arch-Mage, who shrugged and stood, addressing the room.

"Aetherium is said to have fallen from the stars," she explained. "The ancient Ayleids called it 'star-metal' or 'star-glass,' depending on its mineral content. It resonates with powerful magical energy even before it is worked, and it's reputed to imbue anything made from it with incredible power. So, a weapon made from it would be far more powerful than an opponent would anticipate."

"According to what I've read and learned so far," Marcus continued, "there were initially four Dwemer city-states responsible for the mining, processing and production of aetherium: Arkngthamz, which was their research center on what they could actually do with aetherium; Bthar-zel – or, Deep Folk Crossing, as we know it – which we don't know a lot about, or what purpose they served, and is mostly buried in the mountains now; Mzulft, where we have one of our training grounds; and of course, Blackreach. The largest concentration of aetherium is said to have fallen in the region known as Blackreach, and Raldbthar became the city responsible for mining the ore."

"Mzulft stored the ore in a large facility away from the city itself," Tamsyn went on, "because the raw ore was said to be so 'harmonically volatile' that it could explode, with disastrous consequences."

There were audible gasps around the room.

"Should we even be attempting to mine it then," Balgruuf asked, "if it's as dangerous as all that?"

"I believe we'll be safer than the Dwemer were," Tamsyn replied. "Remember, much of their machines worked with harmonic resonators. They used them, large and small, in almost all aspects of their daily lives. They eschewed magic, don't forget, and adhered to technology. They were brilliant architects, engineers and designers, but ultimately were vulnerable to the thing they depended on to power everything in their cities. We aren't at that level of technology, so I think we'll be alright."

"So, if we were able to mine this aetherium ore," Ulfric mused, "we could make a weapon powerful enough to wipe out the Altmer once and for all."

Marcus frowned. He didn't like where that line of thought was leading. "Doing that would make us no better than the Altmer," he said severely. "I don't want to commit genocide. I just want to make sure the Aldmeri Dominion is destroyed."

"I thought that's what we were talking about," Ulfric rumbled dangerously.

"I'm talking about a faction," Marcus reminded him. "An organization that a lot of Altmer belong to, but not every Altmer subscribes to their philosophy."

"I know a few Altmer in my…business," Dante spoke up. "Some of them have suffered at the hands of the Dominion just as cruelly as we have. It would be a mistake to paint them all with the same brush."

"And don't forget," Balgruuf added. "There's Calcelmo, working for us on the…what did you call it, Marcus?"

"Research and Development team," Marcus supplied. "R and D."

"That's right," Balgruuf continued. "Calcelmo's a good mer. A bit eccentric, but he doesn't like what the Dominion is doing any more than we do."

"Alright, I retract my statement," Ulfric dismissed, waving his hand.

"Let's be absolutely clear on this," Marcus said. "I plan on taking the fight to the Thalmor, to the Dominion itself. We are not out to kill innocent people, simply because they're Altmer. I don't want to hear any tales of retribution against the Altmer citizens of any city in Skyrim."

"Or in Cyrodiil," General Tullius interjected. "I believe I can speak for his Imperial Majesty on this." He raised an eyebrow at Dante for confirmation.

"Agreed," the Breton Guildmaster said. Everyone present knew who he was; there was no need for pretense. "My Grandfather, his Imperial Majesty, will uphold the rights of citizenship to anyone whose Province of origin has unfortunately been absorbed by the Aldmeri Dominion. This means any Bosmer, Khajiit, Argonian or Altmer who breaks all ties to the Dominion and its agents. There will be no reprisals against them."

"Understood," Ulfric nodded.

"In point of fact," Tamsyn said now, "conjecture over what we _could_ make from aetherium is irrelevant. Even the Dwemer needed special tools just to mine and work with it, and we simply don't have those. Whatever little bit Marcus and Dante find may be all there is of refined aetherium. Without the proper tools, and the Forge itself, this is all moot."

"But we still can't allow the Dominion to get there ahead of us," Marcus insisted. "Greyshadow and I will head out to Raldbthar in the morning to find that last piece, and then see if we can locate the Forge itself."

"I'll go to Falkreath," Tamsyn said. "At the very least, I can pinpoint where these concentrations of magicka are."

"I'll go with you, Arch-Mage," Madanach surprised everyone by saying.

"Are you sure, Madanach?" Balgruuf queried, raising an eyebrow. "Forgive me, but you're not a young man—"

"And you're no spring chicken yourself, Balgruuf," Madanach scowled. "I might be long in the tooth, but I can still fight. And the Arch-Mage shouldn't go alone."

"I would be happy to have your company, Madanach," Tamsyn smiled, forestalling any other arguments.

"What do we do with that airship?" Tullius asked. "We can't leave it here. Already, there may be Dominion spies reporting its location."

"I suppose Alftand is the best place for now," Marcus pondered. "Calcelmo and Sorine can look it over, but I don't want them taking it apart until after we've found the Aetherium Forge."

"We can have Captain Arias drop us off at this Raldbthar before he takes it to Alftand," Dante said. "It's not that far out of the way, according to the map."

"Or we can take it to Alftand ourselves," Marcus suggested, "and travel through Blackreach to get to Raldbthar."

"That area of Blackreach hasn't been completely cleared yet, Dragonborn," Balgruuf warned him. "There's heavy Falmer activity in that area. It's the deepest, darkest corner of the entire undercity."

"There's no guarantee you'll be able to get into the upper areas from Blackreach, either, dear," Tamsyn added. "It might be safer to take the airship there, and leave instructions with Arias to give to Calcelmo and Sorine."

"What if the airship gets attacked on the way?" Tullius demanded.

"With a dragon escort?" Marcus grinned. "Highly unlikely, I should think."

"Dragon escort?" the General faltered.

Marcus chuckled. "When I spoke with Benor earlier, I asked him to send a few of his best riders. They should be here soon, and the airship can depart."

Ulfric laughed. "I will give you that one, Dragonborn! You certainly were thinking ahead."

"I have to, Your Majesty," Marcus smiled modestly. "Too much is at stake to do otherwise."

Once the council broke up, the portal in Balgruuf's quarters took Tullius back to the Imperial City, and Ulfric back to Castle Dour in Solitude, where he would return to Elisif and his children, waiting for him at the Blue Palace.

"Let Her Majesty know that I will be seeing her soon," Tamsyn told Ulfric. "As soon as I'm done in Falkreath."

"You are always welcome at our court, Arch-Mage," Ulfric smiled.

"Oh, this won't be a formal visit," Tamsyn giggled. "I just need some girl talk with the High Queen."

Ulfric laughed out loud. "I'll make sure I'm busy elsewhere, then!" he grinned, then bowed and left.

Marcus and Tamsyn retired to Breezehome, where Alesan now lived, when he wasn't at Jorrvaskr. The 15-year-old greeted them enthusiastically and barely gave them a chance to get a word in edgewise as he rambled on about everything he had been doing with the Companions.

"And Vilkas says it would be great to see you again, Pa," he added, almost as an afterthought. "He told me to pass that along to you. And Farkas says to tell you 'hello'!"

"I'll head on down there in a bit and see them myself," Marcus promised. "Have you heard from Blaise at all?"

"Just that he's busy," the Redguard teen said. "He's finally learning how to make dragon bone armor and weapons on his own. I guess Master Balimund thinks he's ready to strike out on his own, but Blaise says he likes Riften, even if it _is_ a wretched town."

"It's not _that_ bad," Tamsyn murmured.

"No," Alesan agreed. "Jarl Saerlund has been working hard to improve the city's reputation, but I mean, really, the Thieves' Guild _does_ still operate out of the Ratway there."

"They're going to have to change their organization's name," Marcus chuckled. "Something more like the Riften Intelligence Agency."

"Funny, that's what Master Brynjolf said, last time I was there," Alesan laughed. "Anyway, what have you two been up to? I saw that flying ship earlier. It looks amazing!"

Marcus told his son as much as he felt it was safe to let the young man know. Tamsyn was uncharacteristically subdued until the young Redguard confronted her.

"You're awfully quiet, Ma," he said soberly. "Something wrong?"

"It's nothing I can do anything about," she replied, almost sadly. "I was just wondering how long has it been since you became a werewolf again?"

There was stunned silence, and Alesan had the grace to look ashamed.

"Alesan…" Marcus whispered. "Is this true?"

His son nodded his head.

"After everything we went through to find a cure!" Marcus felt his temper rising along with his voice, and fought to keep both under control. "Why?"

Alesan blew out a breath and looked his father directly in the eyes. "I made this choice for myself, Pa, because it felt right. Aela was right. I was a child the last time, and giving me the blood was wrong. But I'm older now; older, even than a normal kid my age would be. I guess that's the wolf blood in me. Even curing me last time didn't get rid of all of it. It's part of why Lars and I don't talk much anymore. He still seems like a kid to me and I…I feel much older, now."

"You two used to be very close," Tamsyn said mildly.

Alesan nodded. "I know. The last time I went to see him, I thought it would be like old times, the way we were when we were kids. But Lars is…well, Lars. He still has a lot of insecurities and he's committed to becoming a dragon rider, while I – I just wanted to feel powerful again."

He took a deep breath and continued. "I had to do some serious talking to convince Aela this was what I really wanted. She didn't want to, at first. I guess you put the fear of Akatosh into her the last time, Pa. She was mainly worried about what you might say when you found out."

"How will you control your transformations?" Tamsyn asked, keeping her voice under control. She could feel her heart breaking, but there was little she could do. The damage had been done.

"Aela gave me a ring," he said, pulling off his gauntlet to show them the Ring of Hircine. "She told me it would allow me to decide when to change. She told me you gave it to her, Pa."

"When were you going to tell us?" Marcus asked, dully.

Alesan squirmed uncomfortably. "I wasn't," he admitted. "Not really. But I should have known I couldn't keep it a secret from Ma." He smiled at Tamsyn sheepishly.

"You're certain this is what you want?" Tamsyn asked now, curiously resigned. "There is no cure anymore. All of the heads of the Glenmoril witches were used the first time around. When you die, you won't go to Aetherius; Hircine will be waiting for you in the Hunting Grounds."

"I know, Ma," Alesan said, steadily. "And I'm prepared for that. As I said, I made this choice on my own. It's what I want."

"Then I guess there's nothing more we can say," Tamsyn said, folding her arms around him. Alesan looked past her shoulder at Marcus.

"Pa?"

Marcus hesitated before rising.

"I need to think," was all he said before leaving Breezehome.

"Pa?!" Alesan called, and would have gone after him, but Tamsyn – in spite of her short stature – stopped the younger man.

"Let him go, sweetheart," she told him. "He needs to work this out on his own."

Marcus strode down the streets of Whiterun, his mind in a turmoil. Oblivious of the townsfolk greeting him, his thoughts turned inward, he didn't stop until he realized he was standing in front of Jorrvaskr. Taking a deep breath, he went inside. He saw Aela immediately, and upon catching his eye, she paled beneath her face paint and exited out the back door.

"Marcus!" a deep voice boomed, and Farkas was there, pounding him on the back. "I didn't know you were in town! It's great to see you, Harbinger!"

Marcus didn't remember what he said, but it must have satisfied the gentle giant. The next thing he knew, he was seated in the Harbinger's quarters – which he rarely used – across from Vilkas.

Something was shoved into his hands, and looking down he saw his reflection in the liquid within the tankard. Ripples distorted the image, and he closed his eyes, raising the mug for a long drink. Mead. Of course.

"So," Vilkas said, ensuring the door was closed. "Do you want to talk about it?"

It was a testament to the twin's intelligence and compassion that he didn't ask what was on the Harbinger's mind.

Marcus set the tankard down and put his head in his hands.

"How could he, Vilkas?" he moaned. "After everything we went through – after all _I_ went through to save him? How could he take the blood again?"

"If it's any consolation to you," Vilkas said mildly, "it took a lot of convincing on his part to get Aela to agree. She even came to me and asked if she should do it."

Marcus raised his head. "What did you tell her?"

Vilkas frowned. "The same thing I'm going to tell you, Harbinger: Alesan is not a boy any longer. He's a man. Oh, I know," he continued, waving off any protest the Dragonborn would have made. "According to the laws of Skyrim, he won't be acknowledged as an adult until next year, when he turns sixteen. But that just a trifle. In all other respects, he's a man. And as a man, he's responsible for his own actions and decisions."

"But—"

"There's no debate here, Marcus," Vilkas said sternly. "You either love your son or you don't. You don't get to decide which parts of him you accept or reject. It has to be the whole package. Alesan has decided for himself that this is who he is. Who are we to tell him he's wrong?"

"I do love him, Vilkas," Marcus insisted. "He's my son in every way that matters. But this lycanthropy…" He sighed. "You said it yourself, that the Companions had been duped. That the Glenmoril witches tricked your predecessors. It was wrong."

"Aela never felt it was wrong," Vilkas pointed out. "And for a long time, neither did I, nor Farkas, nor Kodlak. We accepted it was the right thing to do to become stronger. It was only much later that we made the decision for ourselves to end our lycanthropy."

"Alesan won't get that chance!" Marcus yelled. "There _is_ no more cure! Tamsyn told him that!"

" _Aela_ told him," Vilkas returned placidly. "And he still decided this was more important to him than not being a werewolf." He sighed. "You once told Idolaf Battle-born, _'At a certain point, they all have to make their own decisions. After all, we did.'_ Do you still believe that? Or did you mean, 'only when it's convenient for us'?"

"No, that's not what I meant!" Marcus glared.

Vilkas shrugged. "It's good advice, actually. Idolaf thought so, anyway. He used that argument on his father, Olfrid, to get the old man to change his mind about Idolaf's brother, Jon, going to the Bard's College to become a skald. Jon should be graduating soon, and I think Olfrid would be proud, if he could see his son today."

"I just think of everything I went through—"

"This isn't about you, Marcus!" Vilkas snapped. "This is about Alesan, and what he wants to do with his life. You need to accept that. Yes, you've sacrificed. We all did. Kodlak gave up more than any of us, I think. But if he were here today, he would probably tell you, as I'm doing now, that you can't control everything. Sometimes, in spite of everything you've done, some things are just meant to be."

Marcus nodded, but felt a lump rising in his throat. "It means…" he said brokenly, "that I won't…get to see him…in the afterlife…" He laid his head down on the table, shoulders shaking in silent regret for what could never be. Vilkas' own eyes stung, but he held it inside and patted his friend's back until the Dragonborn got himself under control.

"Thanks, Vilkas…" he began, but the wolf twin – and he would always be known by that moniker – merely waved him off.

"You've had a shock," he said kindly. "You needed to come to terms with that. We were worried – Aela, Alesan, Farkas and I – about how you might react when you found out. I'm glad you came to me, rather than Aela."

"Oh, crap," Marcus realized. "Aela…"

Vilkas laughed. "I saw her face when you came in," he grinned. "How about if we go talk to her together? Then you can go have another talk with your son."

"Yeah," Marcus nodded. "I think that would be best. Oh, and Vilkas?"

"Yes?"

"Since I'm not going to be around very much for a while, I think it's only right and proper that you become the new Harbinger."

"Me?" the younger twin blinked. "But I don't have the temperament for that," he protested. "Even Kodlak knew that."

"Kodlak knew the man you were eight years ago," Marcus pointed out. "You've gained some wisdom and maturity in that time."

Vilkas shrugged. "I don't know about that," he demurred, "but getting rid of the wolf blood certainly helped calm me down."

"So, you'll accept?" Marcus pressed.

Vilkas laughed. "Alright, Marcus," he agreed. "If it will make you smile again, I accept. Now, let's go find Aela and square things with her. Then we'll tell the rest of this rag-taggle lot about the changing of the guard around here!"

Later that evening, Marcus returned home. He said nothing as Alesan and Tamsyn looked up from their seats by the fire. Alesan rose slowly, warily, like a wolf poised for flight.

With an effort that wasn't as great as he feared it might be, Marcus smiled and held out his arms. Alesan flew into them and felt himself wrapped in his father's embrace. A choked sob came from Tamsyn as she joined them.

No words were spoken. None were needed.

* * *

Raldbthar, the place was called, but whatever meaning it may have had in the Dwemer language was lost long ago. Dante and Marcus had hiked in on foot, having had the _Star Shadow_ deposit them on the southern shore of Lake Yorgrim.

"Did the Arch-Mage give you any idea where in this complex we'll find the last piece of aetherium?" Dante had asked.

Marcus snorted. "She said it was very typically at the bottom of the ruin, the last room you have to go into. But she was certain Katria would meet us there."

"Anything else we should be aware of?"

Marcus shrugged. "Lot of Falmer, lots of automatons. The usual things you find in Dwemer ruins."

Dante rolled his eyes. "Automatons I can deal with, but I hate Falmer!"

Marcus shook his head. "I feel sorry for them. They were betrayed by the Dwemer. Doesn't mean I won't kill them if I have to, though."

"I think you're going to have to," Dante said drily.

"That's far enough!" a voice called out.

The two men stopped as they realized the speaker had a bow drawn on them.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Marcus muttered. "Bandits!" He raised his voice. "We don't want any trouble," he called. "We just need to find something that was lost in here."

The woman laughed. "Yeah? You and everybody else around here. Well this is _our_ spot, see? So, shove off!"

"'Everyone else?'" Dante echoed. "Who else has been here?"

"A bunch of elves were here earlier," the bandit replied. "But they didn't leave when we told them to, so we killed them. And we'll kill you, too, if you come any closer." She waved the bow threateningly. Behind her, on the stairs that led up to the main entrance, two more bandits readied their weapons.

The Dragonborn and the Nightingale pulled back several yards to consider their options.

"The Thalmor have already made an attempt," Dante said under his breath.

"Looks like it," Marcus agreed. "Hopefully they didn't find another way in."

"Is there another way?" Dante queried.

"Yeah," Marcus said. "Dwemer ruins often had an elevator…a lift…which would take them directly to the surface from the deepest parts of their underground dwellings. There are a few of them we keep watch over that connect directly to Blackreach."

"Where would this lift be?" Dante asked.

Marcus scanned the hilltop in which the entrance was embedded, and pointed out two Dwemer domes about a quarter-mile behind the entrance. They were just barely visible behind the main edifice.

"Probably back there," Marcus replied, pointing.

Dante squinted into the sun, shading his eyes. "Any chance the Thalmor tried that way in?"

Marcus shrugged. "Hard to say. It looks rugged, but not impossible to get up there. I don't see any bodies lying around down here, so perhaps they did try, and that's where the bandits killed them. They'd have been sitting ducks on those rocks."

"Well, one way or another, we need to get inside," Dante said with determination. "I can sneak up there and take them out."

"That's only three of them," Marcus said. "There's probably more just inside. You'll need a distraction."

"I'm open to suggestion," Dante said drily.

Marcus stood up and strode forward, gaining the attention of the woman with the bow.

"Look," he called up. "I really don't want to kill you, but my friend and I need to get inside."

An iron arrow hissed as it thunked softly into the snowbank next to him.

"That's a warning shot, mister," she scowled. "Now, piss off!"

" _TIID KLO UL!"_

Time ground to a halt, and Marcus sprinted for the steps. Reaching the bandit with the bow, he snatched the arrows from her quiver, even as her hand was reaching back for another. Snapping the bundle over his knee, he tossed them aside and headed for the next bandit bringing his battleaxe around for a mighty swing. He shouldered the man over the edge of the stairs, but didn't wait to watch the growing expression of horror as the bandit realized he was falling. That left one last bandit, and Marcus saw the Dunmer raising his hands, ice crystals forming and coalescing into a magical attack.

But time caught up with him, and the Dunmer blinked as Marcus suddenly appeared before his eyes.

" _FUS RO DAH!"_

The bandit mage was blown over the far side of the stairs, near their rustic tent, and Marcus saw him desperately wheel his arms and legs helplessly as the force of the _thu'um_ carried him out and over the precipice beyond.

The archer grabbed for an arrow, and grabbed again when she came up with nothing. Feeling her quiver, a look of horror crossed her face as she realized it was empty. Turning, she saw the remnants scattered on the snow, and drew her dagger instead. She raised it and raced towards Marcus, who had his back to her.

As the dagger came down for a strike, Dante appeared out of thin air, blocking her attack. He tsk'd in pity.

"So desperate," he chided. "That was your last mistake." Mehrunes Razor encircled her dagger, flipping it neatly out of her hand.

He would have finished her there, but Marcus called out sharply, "No!" Dante stopped.

"Why not?" he demanded. "She would have killed you."

"She might have tried," Marcus allowed, "but I doubt she would have succeeded. Where's her other friend?"

"Broke his neck in the fall," Dante shrugged.

Marcus advanced on the woman, who gulped in spite of her earlier bravado.

"Any further objections to us going in?" he glared.

"N-no," the woman stuttered. "It's your funeral. DuFont will kill you before you get far, anyway."

Dante stiffened at the name, but Marcus withheld his questions for later. Now he towered over the woman, who took an involuntary step back.

"Do you know who I am now?" he asked quietly, steel grey eyes boring into hers.

"Y-yeah," she gulped. "You're the D-dragonborn!"

"That's right," Marcus said. "I'm the Dragonborn. Now, I _strongly_ advise you to clear out of here and rethink your life's priorities. Find some honest work, and don't _ever_ let me catch you threatening people again! Go!"

She fled down the stairs, without gathering any of her belongings from the tent, grateful to have escaped with her life.

"You are such a soft touch, Dragonborn," Dante mocked gently.

Marcus shrugged. "I have little stomach for killing women," he said stiffly. "And before you say anything, yes…I know I'll have to, when we go up against the Dominion. But that will be different."

"How is it different?" Dante asked, curious.

Marcus sighed. "She was no match for either of us. Anyone could see that. There would have been no honor in taking her life. By putting 'the fear of Akatosh' in her, as my son would say, maybe she'll turn her life around and do something productive with it from now on."

Dante shook his head in disbelief. "I disagree," he said. "But what do I know? I'm just a Guildmaster, and a Nightingale. And a survivor."

Marcus chose to ignore the sarcasm. "You want to tell me who this 'duFont' guy is?"

Dante scowled. "He's a miserable scumbag, if it's the Alain duFont I know," he said bitterly. "Years ago, he was a member of the Thieves Guild down in Cyrodiil. He used to run a confidence game."

"Confidence game?" Marcus asked.

"Yeah, he'd pretend to be the mark's friend, get in good with them, then rob them blind," Dante explained. "Most of the time the people would never report it to the city guards because they were embarrassed they'd been taken by a con man."

"You said 'used to be'?" Marcus prompted.

"Things got a bit too hot for him down in Cyrodiil," Dante said. "My predecessor, Praxus, the former Grey Fox, ordered him to back off for a while, but he insisted on doing things his own way. He made it rather difficult for anyone else in the Guild to get any work done, because of the heightened security and guard activity. His ego insisted he was just better than the rest of us, and it was causing some tension in the ranks."

"So, he was kicked out of the Guild?" Marcus surmised.

"He was," Dante confirmed. "His arrogance grew so bad that he challenged my predecessor to a duel. Praxus was no fool. He wasn't going to risk retiring with all his accumulated wealth on a petty squabble with someone like duFont, so he invoked a seldom-used clause in our Guild by-laws and requested he be allowed to call a second to fight on his behalf."

The light went on. "You," Marcus smiled. "Praxus had you fight duFont. But you weren't supposed to fight to the death, were you?"

"Not normally, no," Dante admitted. "But everyone knew duFont cheated. Praxus didn't trust him. He loaned an amulet to me that was proof against poison. It turned out Praxus' foresight was warranted. DuFont used a virulent poison on his blade, to get the advantage over me. When I didn't go down, he faltered, and I bested him. DuFont was kicked out, and the Guild went back to 'business as usual.'"

"And duFont ended up in Skyrim, attempting to re-establish himself, it would appear," Marcus mused. "I wonder that he didn't sign on with Brynjolf's crew."

"Praxus sent word ahead to the Guilds in High Rock and Skyrim," Dante shrugged. "Petty, probably, but I don't blame him. I'd have done the same."

"And now duFont is here, somewhere inside," Marcus nodded. "Well, if we catch up to him, I won't get in your way."

Dante grinned. "Not that it would stop me if you did."

Marcus decided to let that pass.

Inside, as was typical in most Dwemer ruins Marcus had been in, the stone floor sloped down to an intersection blocked by jets of flame continually shooting out from bronze nozzles jutting from the doorway on the left jamb. The bronze doors themselves had been knocked down at some point in time, and someone had set up a rotisserie with a skeever roasting away on it.

In front of this, a corridor opened to the left, and tucked away in a corner of the entrance hall was an Orc sleeping on a bedroll.

Dante never hesitated. He pulled up his hood and glided over to the Orc, slitting his throat before he could awaken. Marcus frowned, but in his heart, he knew this was how it would have to be. The bandits here would give them no quarter.

It was impossible to bypass the flames, so the two men took the side corridor, creeping up close to peer around the corner of the open doorway. One bandit was asleep, another was seated at a stone table, and the third appeared to be keeping watch. They were no match for a Nightingale and a Dragonborn, and it wasn't long before silence descended once more, except for the all-pervading whoosh and hiss of Dwemer machinery.

At the next intersection, a corridor to the right led down to a larger area, that seemed to be connected to the main entryway, past the flame jets. The way ahead was blocked by a gate that was locked, but was no match for a master thief. Dante gestured both ways, as if to ask _'Which way?'_ The ramp beyond the gate led upwards, and Marcus could see the corridor turn to the right at the top of the slope. If it connected to some other rooms, Marcus thought, it might be wise to clear those out before delving deeper. If it turned out to be some sort of mezzanine or overlook – as there were in so many Dwemer ruins – they might be able to assess the situation in the large chamber they could see part of down the corridor to the right.

Marcus pointed up, and Dante nodded, leading the way.

It turned out to be a balcony of sort, with two ballistae locked and loaded, trained on the chamber below. Marcus felt that was rather odd. It almost seemed to him that at some point in the dimness of the past, some Dwemer King had rigged these here, pointing into the Grand Hall of his domain, in order to eliminate an enemy before they could penetrate too deeply into Raldbthar. He shook his head slightly. He knew he was just imagining things.

As they peered over the railing, they could see two bandits in rough iron and fur armor, seated near a campfire that had been constructed in the middle of the room, next to a deadfall of bronze and stone that had collapsed from the ceiling overhead ages ago. Standing nearby was a Breton dressed in very fine clothing, with an enormous warhammer strapped to his back.

"How long we gonna stay her, duFont?" one of the bandits, a Nord, demanded. "You promised us we'd be rich as kings once we plundered this place, and you sold that fancy weapon you stole from the Shatter-shields."

"Yes," said the other, a Khajiit. "This one grows weary of waiting. Where is the gold you promised us?"

"You'll get your gold," the Breton, duFont, said smoothly. "It's just going to take a little bit longer than I anticipated. The Falmer down below fight ferociously, so searching for other treasures the Dwemer left behind is a bit harder than I thought it would be."

"Those stinking machines are worse," the Nord said. "Engvald and Trione were killed by one of those rolling things."

"Yes, well, I didn't think those things would still be active, after all this time," duFont admitted. "But it just means your share will be that much larger once the money comes in."

"It had better be," the Khajiit hissed, "or perhaps this one will take it out of your hide, and sell that fancy bauble of yours himself."

A cold tone entered duFont's voice. "I think you'd find that harder than you thought, J'ynnri," he warned dangerously. "Don't even think about double-crossing me, or I'll have your hide for a winter coat."

J'ynnri laid his ears back, but subsided.

"I'm working on a new buyer for the Shatter-shield hammer," duFont promised. "My original buyer dropped out when he got wind that it might be stolen…which it is, but that shouldn't have mattered. It's just our bad luck he grew a set of morals. Don't worry. I went to a lot of trouble to get this." He patted the handle sticking up behind his back. "I'll find some poor sod to sell it off to."

"Say, whatever happened to that bit of fluff you were seeing?" the Nord asked, curious.

"Muiri?" duFont laughed. "Oh, that's the best part of the whole story, Ortho!" He chuckled again. "Poor little Muiri! So easy to dupe with honeyed words dripped in her ears."

"Where did you find her?" Ortho asked.

"At the Candlehearth," duFont shrugged. "I watched her for several nights. I could see she was in tight with the Shatter-shields. The twin girls treated her like a sister, and the parents considered her another daughter! It was practically child's play getting her to believe I was interested in her. Do you know, the simpering little bitch actually thought I was in love with her?"

All three around the fire laughed, and Marcus felt his jaw tighten. He threw a glance at Greyshadow, but with the hood on, it was impossible to tell what the Nightingale was thinking.

"After that," duFont continued, still grinning, "it was as easy as falling off a log getting her to tell me where Aegisbane was kept. And here's the icing on the sweet roll," he chuckled. "They blamed _her,_ and tossed her out!"

To Marcus' left, something went _FOOM!_ Wooden armature rattled as the ballistae released its yard-long Dwemer bolt. There was a sickening, squishing sound, and Alain duFont flew backwards approximately fifteen feet, slamming into the far wall. Looking down, he realized his midsection had suddenly sprouted a six-inch diameter rod of solid bronze that had pinned him to the stone wall. Blood pulsed out, a searing pain gripped him, and he clawed feebly at the piece of Dwemer metal that didn't belong there.

"Oops," Dante said with a heavy measure of irony and nonchalance. "My hand slipped." He drew his ebony blade, Inferno, and Mehrunes Razor.

Marcus pulled Dragonbane and the ebony dagger from their scabbards, and together the two men met the rush of the two bandits coming up the stairs at the far side of the room towards them. A third one joined the first two from a chamber just under the balcony, but it wasn't enough, and the fight didn't last long. Dante wiped his blades and sheathed them, and walked over to where duFont lay, his life ebbing away. Towering over the dying Breton, Dante removed his mask.

DuFont's eyes widened in fear. "Grey…sha…dow…" he choked.

"You always were scum, duFont," Dante sneered. "But to gain the trust of an innocent girl, to steal from a family that cared about her, and pin the blame on her…that's a new low, even for you."

DuFont attempted to summon healing magic, though it would have done him little good with a three-foot pole of Dwemer metal running through his midsection. In another minute, he was dead.

"I won't apologize for that, Dragonborn," Dante said grimly.

"I'm not asking you to," Marcus said. "He deserved it." He leaned over and loosened Aegisbane from duFont's back, fastening the harness around himself.

"What do you intend to do with that?" Dante asked.

"Take it back to the Shatter-shields," Marcus replied, missing the rolling of the Guildmaster's eyes behind the mask.

"Looks heavy," Dante commented.

Marcus grunted as he hefted it into the halter on his back. "It is."

"I don't suppose it would do any good to suggest we come back for it?" Dante queried, as he rummaged through the belt pouches of the other three bandits.

"Nope." Marcus grunted again as he shifted it into a more comfortable position. "Let's go."

The chamber under the mezzanine had also partly collapsed, but there were three small Dwemer chests in here, as well as a cage in the corner behind a master-locked gate with a larger chest and some ingots of gold.

"That's what I like to see!" Dante chirped happily, popping the lock open. The Dwemer shield had a strong resist spell on it, and would have been worth a tidy sum of cash if they made an effort to haul it back to sell. But it was also heavy, and when Dante made no offer to pick it up, Marcus shrugged. Aegisbane alone was taking a toll on his strength.

The gold bars were heavier than the shield, and Dante grunted a little, picking them up, until he placed them in his haversack. Once inside, he straightened again as if they weighed no more than a feather. Marcus noticed this.

"Special bag?"

Dante nodded. "One of my first choices, when I first became a thief. There was just something about it that I couldn't put my finger on, but no one else took it out of the haul, so I did. I learned its unique properties only later. No matter what I put inside, it never weighs more than about five pounds. But I have to be able to fit it inside."

Marcus chuckled. "That is one handy haversack," he remarked.

Beyond this point there were no more bandits. Clearly, duFont and his band were unable to work their way past the numerous Dwemer automatons that still leaped out from their hatches or patrolled the ruins.

There were traps here, as well, and Dante was taken by surprise with a whirling blade trap that sprung up out of a ramp leading up. The blades bit deeply through his armor, nearly hitting bone, and he collapsed, writhing in pain. Marcus hauled him out of the way, leaving a large trail of blood, until they got to a safe distance where Marcus could cast an apprentice-level healing spell to revive the Nightingale. As Dante finished healing with a strong potion, he glared at the Dragonborn.

"Do you think next time you could avoid setting off the traps?" he demanded, breathing hard.

Marcus scowled. "I didn't step on anything!" he insisted. "Look around here," he gestured. "I know what a dwarven floor trigger plate looks like. That thing activated on its own."

Dante realized the Dragonborn was correct. There had been no visible trigger for the trap.

"I'm sorry, Dragonborn," he grunted. "But if you didn't set it off, what did?"

"I don't know," Marcus replied, shrugging. "The more important question is, how do we get past it?"

Dante studied the dual spinning scythes for a long moment, as he streamed healing energy into himself. His armor had been compromised, but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.

"Timing," he finally answered. "Look along the left side. There are a couple of places where it's possible to squeeze against the wall and not get hit. We just have to get to those spots before the blades swing past again."

Marcus watched the blades, counting seconds to himself as the pair of Dwemer blades came together, then separated to travel back to the ends of the track.

"It'll be tight," he said doubtfully.

"I've been in tighter places," Dante shrugged. "I'm sure you have been, too."

Marcus chuckled drily. "Doesn't mean I enjoyed it."

"Do you want to go first, or shall I?" the Guildmaster asked.

"You go first," Marcus said. "I'll admit you're better at this sort of thing than I am. Let me watch you, first. Might help my confidence," he added lightly, but his face was curiously calm.

Dante nodded, and gauged the distance the blades traveled forward and back through several revolutions before making his move. Swiftly, as the lower blade moved up the slope, he moved behind it, holding to the left side where the stair part of the incline was clogged with fallen debris. He made it to the first recess in the wall just as the lower blade reached its apex, and its whirling bronze razors meshed perfectly with those of its twin, the second set of bronze death-dealers at its lower-most track. When the two separated once more, each heading back to the opposite ends of their paths, Dante waited until there was enough space between the two to advance to the next recess and wait out the upper trap passing by on its way back down, before climbing the rest of the way to the top of the slope.

Marcus nodded, readied himself, then took a deep breath.

" _FEIM ZII GRON!"_

As soon as his surroundings became insubstantial to him, Marcus sprinted his way to the top of the slope, ignoring the spinning blades, and waited for the world to become solid around him once more. Dante pulled off his hood and scowled at him.

"That's cheating!" he complained.

Marcus grinned and shrugged. "Dragonborn," he said simply, spreading his hands and giving a slight bow. "Besides, I knew you wouldn't be able to use my method. And I just wanted to see how a professional did it."

"Thanks," the Guildmaster intoned drily. "I think." His eyes took on a calculating look. "You could, quite possibly, go through an entire ruin in that state, couldn't you?" he asked.

Marcus considered this. "I probably could," he mused, "if I kept Shouting. Except that physical barriers like walls, doors, gates and levers are still a thing. For some reason, I can't get past those while I'm in the ethereal state. But things like weapons, falling boulders, spinning blades of death – they don't affect me."

"Hmm," Dante pondered. "The more you know…"

At the top of the landing, the corridor led into another chamber that resembled a utility room, with pipes everywhere and jets of fire set into the floor. Engines hissed and gears ground as pistons opened and closed in their path. When opened, they blocked the way, and if one happened to be standing immediately in front of the piston when it opened, they would be pushed into the jet of flame.

"These Dwarves were cruel sons-of-bitches," Dante murmured, and Marcus could only agree, knowing what they had done to their kin, the original Falmer.

Dodging the piston would not have been difficult, but dodging the Dwemer spheres on the other side was impossible. They shot out bolts of Dwemer metal from one arm, and wielded keenly-sharp scythes in the other. One of them advanced past the piston, unaffected by the flame. The other rolled down the stairs to join the first one, and Dante leaped to the left to roll under the pipe on the left side of the flame jet. Rising, he came at the second sphere from behind, forcing it to confront him, and preventing it from double-teaming the Dragonborn. For several minutes there was nothing but the ringing of steel on bronze, and much grunting and swearing from both men when they were hit by a bolt or blade of Dwemer metal.

"I'll be so glad when these things are on our side," Marcus grumbled, smashing his sphere to the ground for the final time.

"Is that possible?" Dante wondered, healing himself.

"Calcelmo seems to think so," Marcus nodded. "His nephew, Aicantar, has been working on helmets and staves to direct and control the automatons in battle. He's nearly there."

"I remember seeing an early demonstration of that when you took me to Blackreach," Dante remembered. "That's encouraging, if he can make it work."

At the top of the stairs they found a couple more Dwemer chests and relieved them of their contents. The floor here was slick with oil, and the air was thick with the smell. Marcus wondered just how wise the Dwemer could have been if they thought putting a flame jet near a noxious, fuming oil slick was a good idea.

A short corridor and three spiders later, they found a lift that would take them down into what Calcelmo had called the "Deep Market."

"It would have been a place of commerce, when the Dwemer were still living down here," the old Altmer scholar had explained. "I would love to see if there is anything still remaining there, that the dwarves left behind, but of course, it's too dangerous with all the Falmer in that area."

The lift took them down several hundred feet into the heart of the mountain and the Dwemer ruin. The hall they entered had another slope, and another of the spinning blade traps. This one, however, was easier to avoid, since most of the path on the right-hand side was clear. They only needed to scramble around the end of the trap once the razors had climbed half-way up the slope to avoid injury completely. There was a small Dwemer chest to the right of the door, which Dante quickly looted, before they opened the bronze doors into the next section.

It became immediately apparent that this large chamber was a Falmer den. There were several of the chitin huts constructed in here, as well as a pen to the right of the door where large skeevers were kept. The oversized rats stirred restlessly as Marcus and Dante entered, and both men dropped to a crouch.

Dante made a gesture and held it, counting the illuminated figures in their vicinity. Marcus sent out his Aura Whisper.

"Four Falmer down here," the Guildmaster whispered to the Dragonborn, who nodded his confirmation. "Plus, there are at least three more upstairs."

The upper level was a large, circular platform supported by five columns. Under the platform was what once might have been a fountain, but it had long since dried up. A flight of stairs led up towards the far side of the chamber, where the façade of a Dwemer building, built into the stone, still remained. The doorway had caved in, however, so it would be impossible to explore the structure to look for the piece of the Aetherium key. To their left, another edifice rose, but it had also seen significant damage due to some ancient cave-in. They would find it no easier to penetrate that building than the former. The stairs seemed to turn back on themselves and form a stone ramp to the upper-level platform. Even though the dwarven lanterns still pulsed with light, they were too far apart to be of much use in illuminating such a vast chamber, and it was quite gloomy in here.

Dante preferred it that way.

"We should split up," Marcus suggested. "Take opposite sides to clear the room."

Dante nodded, and moved to the left. Marcus took the right-hand side, and silenced the skeevers with a couple of well-placed arrows. Near the skeever pen he found the body of a Nord woman, a prisoner of the Falmer, who had apparently given as good as she got, judging from the body of the Falmer next to her. Marcus murmured a blessing for her soul before concentrating on his target: a Falmer Warmonger crouching just outside his hut.

Reaching into his belt pouch, he found the small bottle he was looking for. Tamsyn had made him potions that would enhance his marksmanship. He rarely used them; he had mastered the bow a few years before. The enchantment, however would allow him to deal additional damage. He didn't know how that was possible, since his dragonbone bow and arrows dealt a finite amount of force. It was at times like these, however, that he simply accepted it worked, and he knocked the potion back, letting the tingle tell him it was working, before taking aim on the Warmonger.

The hiss and twang of string and fletching was always a satisfying sound. It was even more satisfying to watch the brute of a Warmonger go down in one hit. That seldom happened. They didn't get to be Warmongers by being easy targets.

He set his sights on the next Falmer, several yards away. He could just see her, hovering near the foot of the stairs. She was a Loremaster, which was typical of nearly all female Falmer. That meant she would most likely cast spells and use a staff. Indeed, Marcus could see one of the antenna-topped staves clutched in her claw-like hand. She was sniffing the air suspiciously, and he could see her cock her head to one side, and then the other, trying to catch any sound that was out of the ordinary for this place.

Across the way, there was a hiss and a growl, and Marcus realized that Greyshadow must have alerted one of them to his presence. The Loremaster also growled, and began padding in that direction, gripping the staff tightly, and casting a mage armor spell upon herself.

 _Oh, no, you don't!_ Marcus thought, and let his arrow fly.

It struck her between the shoulder blades, and the force of the blow spun her around several times before she collapsed against the dry fountain, unmoving.

A grunt and a hiss from above told Marcus that the Falmer overhead had been alerted as well, and he quickly moved to head them off. Greyshadow would have to fend for himself.

The first of the Falmer from the upper platform came down the stairs, and Marcus shot him twice. The first arrow only struck a glancing blow to the creature's arm, and it coughed and growled in fury, moving faster now that it _knew,_ rather than suspected that something was wrong. The second arrow buried itself in the Falmer's knee, crippling it, and he fell down the stone stairs to the first landing. Bravely, he struggled to his feet and kept coming, and Marcus felt a slight thrill of concern. The tenacity and constitution of the Falmer never ceased to amaze him. A third arrow sprouted from the Falmer Skulker's chest, and he finally went down. The other Falmer on the upper level had not come down, most likely trusting the Skulker would handle the intruders. Marcus turned to look for Greyshadow, and found him sneaking up behind another Warmonger to slice his throat. He wiped his blade off on a rag of the Falmer's clothing and crept over to the Dragonborn.

"Heard a bit of your scuffle," Marcus whispered. "Had to keep the others out of it."

"Appreciated," Dante said. "I deliberately tossed a rock behind the first one so I could get behind him. He went chasing after it, and it gave me the opening I was looking for. I was never in any real danger. But thanks for having my back."

"Still two more upstairs," Marcus murmured, after sending out his Aura Whisper once more.

"Shouldn't be too difficult," Dante shrugged.

The two Falmer remaining were archers, but the one on the central platform never heard the Nightingale creep up behind him. The other one was across the chamber on a side ledge wide enough to accommodate a Falmer hut. It was joined to the central platform by a gridded panel of Dwemer bronze. Another panel, fixed to the central platform, was raised like a drawbridge, and would allow them to cross to the second story of the building on the south side of the chamber. Marcus took the Falmer out with his bow so the two men could cross to find the mechanism to lower the drawbridge.

"I still can't figure out how these bastards can pinpoint anything with a bow," Dante mused, shaking his head.

"A friend of mine, Gelebor, told me it has to do with their keen sense of hearing and smell," Marcus replied. "When one sense is lost, the others become more acute, to make up for it."

"I don't make a sound when I move," Dante pointed out, "but you have a point about the possibility of being scented, like animals scent their prey. The only problem I have with that theory is that there's hardly any wind moving around in places like these."

"Gelebor said when the Betrayed, as he calls them, sniff the air, they're actually tasting it, too," Marcus explained. "And because their other senses are so heightened, any slight variant is noticed. The scents and tastes are stronger in the direction of their prey than in other directions, and they can locate their target without having to see it."

"That hardly seems fair," Dante groused.

They were moving as they conversed in hushed tones, finding the button which lowered the drawbridge, and returning to cross it and work their way around the upper level perimeter. They clambered over the domed rooftops of the first-floor towers and made their way into another corridor of the building on the west side of the chamber. This led them along a series of pipes, but also descended once more. A trigger plate in the floor puzzled Marcus, as there didn't seem to be an obvious trap, until Dante pointed out the large ballista resting on a ledge directly across from them. Marcus shuddered and headed down the stairs, avoiding the trigger plate.

The hallway turned right, and was lined with sphincters that ejected spiders and spheres. The two men fought their way through, by now familiar with how the automatons fought. Dante targeted them with shock spells, and Marcus used Dragonbane with its shock enchantment to put them down as quickly as possible. Still, it was two very tired adventurers who paused to rest at the top of the next flight of stairs, having destroyed at least a dozen of the Dwemer ruin's guardians.

They couldn't proceed anyway, since bronze bars blocked the way forward. To the right of the bars were four Dwemer pedestal buttons. Another sphincter rested between the bars and the plinths, and suspicious-looking nozzles in the ceiling were pointed directly at whoever stood in front of the daises to push the buttons.

"I don't like the looks of this," Dante growled, swilling a healing potion.

"One of them brings the bars down," Marcus surmised. "That much is certain. But which one? And if we get it wrong, what do the others do?"

"I hate Dwemer puzzles," Dante muttered. "I'm just going to put it out there and make it official."

Marcus chuckled. "Right there with you," he commiserated. "But we still need to figure this out."

Dante considered the tableau. "I think the first button on the left is too obvious," he said finally. "As is the one at the far right."

"Agreed," Marcus nodded. "That leaves the two center buttons. So…which one do we press?"

"The second from the right," the Nightingale decided. "Between the two of them, the one on the left also seems too obvious."

"Hope you're right," Marcus sighed. "Here goes." He pushed the button third from the left. With a hiss, the bars to their left sank into the floor.

Dante blew out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I don't even want to know what the others do," he said. "Let's get moving."

The bronze doors beyond the barred area opened into the largest chamber they had yet seen. They were in a fenced-in portion closest to the door, with a gate of Dwemer metal that would give them access to the rest of the area. The cavern echoed with the sound of banging gears, and Marcus and Dante crept to the gate to peer through.

The central portion of the cave seemed to be a recessed, rectangular pool with several large Dwemer machines at various points around it. There were at least three Falmer huts in here that they could see from their vantage point. To their right, near one of the huts where a Warmonger lurked, was a set of bronze, open-work shelving, holding several bits of incomplete automatons. To their left, and around the corner of the cage, was another Falmer hut with a shaman crouched next to it. Near her, there was a room that looked like a diner cafeteria to Marcus, in that the walls were not solid, but had counters with an open space to pass objects through. Inside, he saw two chaurus hunters floating about.

"You have got to be joking," Dante moaned. "What in the name of Nocturnal did the Dwemer do in here?"

"I'm guessing it was some kind of boiler room or pumping station," Marcus answered, "judging from the water. But something's wrong with the machines. They're making far too much noise, and some of those gears aren't moving."

"We've got to get through here," Dante said firmly. "Falmer or no Falmer. I see a drawbridge at the far end of the pool that looks like it could be lowered."

"And I'll bet these machines would do that, if they weren't fucked up," Marcus said. "We'll need to get them working, and that means taking out the Falmer first."

"Do you want to split up again?" Dante asked, prepared to do just that.

"No," Marcus replied. "The moment we do, one of them is going to sic those uber wasps on us. I really don't want to deal with Falmer _and_ poison-spitting flying mantises with razor-sharp claws."

Dante shook his head, bemused. "You really do have some of the most colorful euphemisms I've ever heard," he grinned. "Alright," he added briskly, pulling up his hood, "let's take out the witch bitch first and her pets, then we can work on the rest a little at a time."

The plan would have worked beautifully, except that a Falmer came around the corner and surprised them by opening the gate to the room with the chaurus hunters. The ensuing battle brought the attention of the Warmonger down upon them, and it was each man for himself after that. Marcus brought down one of the hunters with his bow, but had to drop it and draw Dragonbane before the second one closed with him.

Dante closed with the shaman, but soon found he needed to watch his own back against the Falmer Skulker that had opened to hunter's pen. The Skulker went down quickly, but the Loremaster had pulled herself back towards the central pool and was shooting at him with Ice Spikes. A sudden growl behind him alerted him to the Warmonger, and he caught the warrior's axe with a back-handed block, before twisting around to deal with the Falmer face-to-face.

Marcus Shouted his Fire Breath at the hunter, and it limped off to a safe distance, badly crippled. Scooping up his bow, he turned and fired at the shaman, who was unprepared for his attack. She cast a quick healing on herself and threw her next volley at the Dragonborn, sending out an icy wave of frost. The chill wind hit him, sinking deep into his bones, even with the protection of the ring Tamsyn had made him. It glowed bright white for a moment, and Marcus shook off the cold, sending two more arrows after the Loremaster. They hit, and she went down, falling into the pool of water. The chaurus hunter chose that moment to return, and Marcus shot it out of the air.

The Warmonger had landed several successful hits on the Guildmaster, who elected not to use Nocturnal's gift during a melee. He preferred to keep that as a court of last resort. He doubted it would have as much effect, however, on a creature that could quite easily sniff him out. Instead, he did his best to dodge and block, only striking when he had a clear opening. Even then, by the time the Dragonborn had taken out the Loremaster, Dante was still facing off against the Warmonger.

Two arrows hissed in out of nowhere, and the Warmonger dodged the first, but not the second. It sank in up to the fletching in his chest, and he staggered, giving Dante the chance to finish him off for good.

"Thanks," the Guildmaster said, breathing heavily. "Those bastards are _tough!"_ He released healing magicka to staunch his wounds.

"I owed you a few," Marcus grinned. "Let's make sure there aren't any more Falmer before we try to get that drawbridge down."

There was only one more, lurking at the back of the cavern, and in a fit of pique, Dante pulled his own bow off his back, drew and fired before Marcus could target him. The Falmer fell without a sound.

"Feel better?" Marcus asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Yes, actually," the Breton man declared. "And I think I see what part of the problem is with these machines." He stepped over to a set of large gears built into the wall. They clanked and rattled, but didn't turn as they should, and the reason was obvious: an entire spinal column had been jammed across them to keep them from spinning. Dante yanked it out, and immediately the gears resumed their usual circuit.

"We'll need to check all of the ones that aren't working," Marcus observed.

"That's not all," Dante replied, pointing. "See there, behind the uplifted bridge? That looks like one of those frames that Dwemer Centurion rest in."

Marcus peered in that direction and nodded. "Yeah, it's a docking bay, alright. When that bridge comes down, we'll have to fight him, too."

"At least we know," Dante shrugged. "Better than being caught flat-footed, I say."

The two men worked their way around the chamber, looting the chests they found and pulling bones and bits of Dwemer metal out of the teeth of the gears. When the last machine was freed, they immediately noticed a reduction in the noise level echoing around the cavern.

"Everything's running smoothly now," Dante said as Marcus pulled himself out of the pool. The last set of clogged gears had been underwater. "Smart of you to realize where the last set was," he remarked.

"I used to do this sort of thing for a living, way back when," Marcus replied. "It was on a much smaller scale, of course, but trouble-shooting is trouble-shooting. It's not hard to figure things out when you know how things are supposed to work."

"Back when you lived in that other world?" Dante asked. The Dragonborn never talked much about his previous life, he realized. There was still much about this man he didn't know.

"That's right," Marcus nodded. "I worked on machines that did calculations on a grand scale, for all their small size. They also held libraries' worth of information, that anyone could access by tapping into the machines. But like most machines, sometimes things went wrong, and they needed to be fixed, either physically, like I've just done here, or by getting into the programs that held the information, to re-write their codes and make them work again. It wasn't as exciting as the life I live now, and I don't really miss it. I just miss the people I left behind."

"You had family?" the Guildmaster prompted.

Marcus gave a sigh of resignation. "Yeah. I had a wife and kids, and grandkids, too. I was an old man there when I died, and my soul was brought here. But I like to think I had a good life then."

"So, your naivety here isn't because of your youth," Dante stated. "It's not from a lack of worldly experience, but because you've never lived in a world like this."

"Things are different here," Marcus admitted. "But there's also a lot of commonality. People are still basically good, I believe. They just want to live their lives unhindered, and take care of themselves and their families. The threats I've faced since I've come here, however, are nothing like the potential hazards I faced back then. For as dangerous as my world seemed to be, I didn't have to worry each morning if I would live to see the sun set another day."

"Avoiding getting beheaded and killed by a dragon, right from the start, had to have given you a moment's pause, then," Dante winked.

"Scared the crap out of me," Marcus chuckled ruefully. "And now, if you're rested enough, shall we deal with the Centurion? I've got an idea how to handle it. At least, it worked in Nchardak."

"Oh?"

Marcus didn't elaborate, but told the Nightingale, "Get your bow ready," and hit the button on the pedestal next to the ledge where the bridge would come down. And come down it did, revealing the Centurion, who steamed and flexed its legs, its upper half turning in a complete circle before it advanced onto the bridge.

"Shoot it!" Dante called out, alarmed, but Marcus shook his head and insisted, "Wait for it!"

When the Centurion was half-way across, it paused and reared back, and Marcus knew it was getting ready to spew a gout of super-heated steam. He slammed the button once more, and the bridge lifted, taking the Centurion with it, smashing it against the stone wall above its docking bay.

Crumpling, it began to fall, and Marcus hit the button one more time. The bronze behemoth fell off the bridge into the water, and Marcus cackled with glee.

Until the metal giant got to its feet at the bottom of the pool and began to walk out.

"That was brilliant, Dragonborn," Dante sneered, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

"Well, it _almost_ worked," Marcus said defensively. "It worked in Nchardak!"

"We aren't in Nchardak," Dante reminded him. "Here he comes! Watch out for that steam spray!"

He leaped to one side, towards the entrance of the cavern, and Marcus was forced, once more, to dive into the water. He came up sputtering, and realized the Centurion had its back to him, pursuing the Guildmaster. He clambered out once more and drew his bow, praying the string wasn't too wet for an effective shot. His first shot fumbled completely, and his second went wide. Cursing under his breath, he put the bow away and summoned the magicka within him, sending out a dual-cast Firebolt.

It slammed into the metal man's back, but the giant barely noticed. Marcus couldn't see Dante from this distance, and was reluctant to use an area of effect spell like Fireball. Ever since Solstheim, he had been working on his spellcraft, and at this point he felt that – while he would never be as talented as Tamsyn or Azura – he wasn't half bad.

The scraping of metal against metal brought his attention back to the fact that the Centurion had turned around and was now targeting him. It raised its arm with the crossbow attached, and Marcus sprinted for cover behind one of the machines at the edge of the pool. It was not an ideal solution, but he was reluctant to go back into the water a third time.

Something _pinged_ off the back of the metal monster, and it turned to find the source. Marcus couldn't see where the Guildmaster had vanished to, but the fact that he was still in the fight was a good thing. He drew Dragonbane and Shouted, _"TIID KLO UL!"_

Time slowed, and he dashed towards the Centurion, raising the Akaviri blade in an overhand grip that would allow him to stab, rather than slash. As he reached the Dwemer construct, he leaped for the upper part of its chest where the dynamo core lay hidden behind its protective plate. Dwemer metal had little resistance against Akaviri steel, however, and as Marcus pierced the core, the Centurion gave a slow shudder, falling almost gently backwards. It lay there for several seconds as the dust settled like snowflakes back to the floor, before time resumed and only the echoes of the crashing fall remained above the hum of Dwemer machinery.

A chuckle behind him made Marcus turn.

"I thought I was fast," Dante grinned. "One moment you were over there, and the next you were here, and that thing crashed down like the Tower of Crystal-Like Law during the Oblivion Crisis!"

Marcus returned the grin. "We each have our own bailiwick," he replied, generously.

They crossed the bridge, stopping to loot the large Dwemer chest, before navigating the winding passage behind the bronze double-doors. This area had clearly not seen any activity – either humanoid or automaton – in centuries, as it was clogged with dusty cobwebs, and the debris on the floor was at least two inches thick. The passage ended in a doorway blocked by bronze bars, but there was a lever on the left side which Marcus threw to open the way.

In the next room they heard the sounds of combat. Katria was there, glowing in the dimness, fighting a sphere and several spiders. Between the three of them, they made short work of the automatons, and Katria's face lit up upon seeing them.

" _We meet again!"_ she grinned. _"That was quite the trek!"_

"We didn't see you out there," Dante frowned, gesturing behind them.

" _I meant it was quite a trek for me to get here from Arkngthamz,"_ she qualified. _"Since we found the first piece there, I realized I could sense where the next piece would be, and it led me here. We should have two more to find, then."_

"Actually," Marcus demurred, pulling the two Tamsyn had given them from his belt pouch, "we already have the other two. This is the last one we needed to get."

" _I thought there was something odd going on,"_ Katria mused. _"I could sense this one, but try as hard as I might, I couldn't figure out where the other two were. They weren't where I thought they'd be. You had them the whole time!"_

"Well, not the _whole_ time," Marcus assured her. "My wife, the Arch-Mage, had occasion to go to Mzulft and found the one there. I believe I told you she's a Seer?" Katria nodded. "She knew where the other one was at Deep Folk Crossing and went to get it before something happened to it."

Katria's eyes narrowed. _"If she knew where these were, did she also know of the one we found in Arkngthamz?"_ she demanded. _"Did she tell you where the Forge is?"_

"Yes," Marcus admitted, throwing a look of apology at the Nightingale. "She told me just the other night, when I was preparing to come here with Greyshadow. She wanted to do this herself, to help you, because she knew you'd been given a raw deal. But as Arch-Mage, she has a lot of responsibilities, and didn't have an opportunity to come with us."

Katria nodded thoughtfully. _"She knew all along,"_ she said softly.

"She believed in you," Marcus said simply.

" _That…that makes me feel so much better!"_ Katria smiled. _"That's all I ever wanted. Come on,"_ she continued briskly, passing her hand over her eyes. _"I think the last piece is over here."_

It was, indeed, and Dante picked it up, swapping it with one of Marcus' when they realized it didn't fit the piece he already had.

" _I have to say,"_ Katria ventured, _"I'm glad that part is over!_ " She appeared to take a deep breath. _"It's almost time,"_ she declared. _"I'll meet you at the Forge!"_ She disappeared in a puff of vapor.

"I think I'm going to miss her when this is over," Dante said softly.

"I know what you mean," Marcus murmured in agreement. "I'm going to miss her, too."

The Guildmaster turned to face the Dragonborn. "So," he glared, one eyebrow lifted. "Just when were you going to tell me you know where the Forge is?"

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Next up, the Aetherium Forge! And Tamsyn and Madanach find more than they bargained for in Falkreath Hold. Tamsyn will have to learn to tap into the old magicks to help pull them through as they meet up with Zenosha once more. Thanks for staying with me. If you like what you've read so far, please drop a review!]_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 6**

 _[Author's Note: As I write this, it is my birthday today, the 12_ _th_ _of December (or, Evening Star, if you're in Skyrim), and to celebrate I am posting the next chapter of my tale. I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to The Oracle, Midnight and Crona at , for permission to include their contest entry 'The Old Gods' in my story. An impressive amount of research, imagination and consideration went into their pantheon of the gods of the Forsworn, and I am delighted to be able to use it here. Thank you!]_

* * *

"So, Arch-Mage," Madanach began. "Any ideas on where we should start looking for Thalmor encampments?"

They were seated by the fire in Breezehome, after Marcus and Dante left for Raldbthar. Alesan had already gone up to Jorrvaskr, after a bittersweet parting from his father. Tamsyn's heart ached for the young man, but knew there was nothing she could do about it. Alesan had made his choice.

She gave Madanach a rueful smile. "I was hoping you would tell me," she replied. "After all, it was your people who detected the strong concentration of magicka in certain areas."

"That _is_ true," Madanach mused. "We could easily get in over our heads here, just the two of us. I think we're going to need some back-up."

"A large group of us tromping through Falkreath and the southern Reach is sure to garner unwanted attention," Tamsyn warned.

"Oh, I don't think we need a large group," Madanach responded blithely. "I'm thinking just one other – my daughter Kaie."

"Kaie?" Tamsyn blinked. "I mean, I'm sure she's an excellent warrior and all—"

"She's my second in command," Madanach said firmly. "And she'll be Queen of the Reach after me, if all goes well. Besides, she's at least as accomplished in magic as I am, and she's already received the blessings of the Old Gods, which is something we're going to need."

Tamsyn knew she wouldn't be able to dissuade the old Reach King. "If you're sure," she said doubtfully. "It will take some time for her to get here, unless you want to head to Bthardamz through Balgruuf's portal."

"That'll do, for a start," Madanach nodded. "And Kaie could get here within the hour, if she needed to. But for what we have to do, Bthardamz is as good a place as any."

Tamsyn was confused. "It's a thirteen-hour trip to Markarth from here," she pointed out. "Longer, up to Bthardamz. And there aren't any carriages that go that way."

Madanach gave a knowing chuckle. "We don't use carriages to get around the Reach," he grinned. "Let's head up to Dragonsreach and get over to my place from there. Then you'll see what I mean." He wouldn't say any more, and Tamsyn stifled her curiosity for now.

In a very short time, Tamsyn and Madanach stepped off the portal platform in Bthardamz. Tamsyn had never actually been here since coming to Skyrim, but she had played the game in her old life, and was familiar with the Dwarven architecture and the green, glowing vines that grew everywhere. Part of the ritual offerings to Peryite, Daedric Prince of Pestilence, the Reachfolk never bothered to remove the growths when they took over the ancient Dwemer city.

Madanach had been the one to go into the place and eliminate Orchendor, the apostate priest of Peryite who was leading his followers astray, much to the dismay and resentment of the Daedric Prince. The followers were left alone, unless they became aggressive. Most just wanted to return home to die, but Madanach knew that grateful people made the best recruits. He called upon his Hagraven Matriarchs to use their skills to cure the plague that beset the population of Bthardamz, and in return, they agreed to remain and help fight the Dominion and free the Reach from Imperial and Nord control. Oddly enough, their ability to projectile vomit a corrosive acid was viewed by the Reachfolk as something to be admired, rather than reviled, and the odd assortment of Bretons, Nords and Imperials were allowed to continue to worship Peryite as they saw fit.

Kaie approached them as they descended the platform.

"Da!" she exclaimed in delight. "I wasn't expecting you so soon! Is this a social call?"

"No," the old man said, hugging her, "it's business. You know the Arch-Mage?" He indicated Tamsyn.

"Yeah, we met at High Hrothgar," Kaie said. "Good to see you again, my lady."

"It's just 'Tamsyn,'" the Breton mage insisted. "And I'm pleased to see you again, too, Kaie."

"So, what's this 'business,' Da?" Kaie asked.

"Not here," Madanach insisted. "Go find Borkul and Elieshandra and meet me in my office."

Twenty minutes later Tamsyn found herself seated as comfortably as one could on a stone bench in a small Dwemer chamber at the top of the city. Borkul the Beast had been found, as well as an older woman Tamsyn didn't know, but who radiated illusion magic so strongly to the Arch-Mage that she knew the woman was a Matriarch.

"Alright, Da," Kaie said. "We're all here. Oh, Arch-Mage – I mean, _Tamsyn –_ this is Matriarch Elieshandra."

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Arch-Mage," the Matriarch rasped. "I've heard much about you." Illusion magic or no, nothing could hide the hiss of a Hagraven's voice if she hadn't made an effort to hide it. Interim Jarl Esmerelda was a past master of disguising her true nature.

"It's an honor to meet you, as well, Matriarch," Tamsyn replied formally, rising to greet the older woman. "Please…you don't need the illusion here, just for my sake."

The Matriarch's form wavered and dissolved into the more-familiar image of a Hagraven. "Oh, thank Jiae!" she chortled. "That spell takes so much out of me! But there are some here who find it more comforting than my true form."

"Well, then," Madanach began. "Let me catch you up on a few things." He told them of the quest Marcus and Dante had undertaken to find the Aetherium Forge, as well as their escape from a hidden Thalmor fortification in the southern Dragontail Mountains.

"Yes," Elieshandra mused. "You directed us to scry, to see if there were any more of those. We already gave you the report."

"I know," the Reach King nodded. "And now we have to go check them out, one by one, to see what we're up against. How far along in preparation are they? How many troops have they filled those places with? How ready are they to launch an assault against Skyrim?"

"That's a dangerous job, Boss," Borkul muttered. "You shouldn't be going out there doing that kind of reconnaissance. Leave that to Kaie and me."

Madanach shook his shaggy gray head. "Not going to happen," he frowned. "I'm the Reach King, and those bastards set up an entire enclave in a dormant volcano in _our_ territory, with none of us the wiser! I'm responsible for all these people here, as well as all our people across the Reach. How long do you think it will be before the Dominion starts flying those airships of theirs, discovering our hidden camps in the hills? You think they aren't aware of the damage we're doing to them, massacring their patrols? I guarantee you, the only reason they haven't attacked us until now is because we've managed to hide our redoubts. If they're able to get even a few of those flying boats of theirs up into the air over the Reach, you can pretty much put us down as a footnote in history!"

"Madanach's right, I'm afraid," Tamsyn interjected. "We need to find out how ready the Dominion is to launch their final assault, and I'm worried we're running out of time. We don't have the support of Hammerfell or Morrowind yet. They haven't openly committed to our cause. I think that may be because they don't wish to bring down Dominion attention upon themselves. But it leaves us rather high and dry with only Cyrodiil, High Rock and Skyrim left to combat the combined forces of Valenwood, Elsweyr and the Summerset Isles."

"What about Black Marsh?" Kaie asked. "I thought they were tied to the Dominion as well?"

"Not exactly," Tamsyn replied. "They took advantage of the confusion after the Oblivion Crisis to secede from the Empire and invade Morrowind, which was going through some cataclysmic times of its own. They stayed out of the Great War mostly because of their independent nature. I can't see that they would necessarily join with the Dominion; Argonians tend to like their neutral status. But some of them would probably choose to fight _with_ the Dominion, rather than _for_ it, if it meant they could kill Imperials. There were some that did just that during the Great War, and the Dominion put them on the front lines at the Battle of the Red Ring. In their minds, it was better to lose a few Argonians than a few Altmer."

"If the Dominion runs true to their nature," Elieshandra mused, "they would launch a multiple attack on the Empire, on all her loyal Provinces at once. During the Great War, the signal was Titus Mede's rejection of the Thalmor terms of the White-Gold Concordat."

"We already know there have been multiple attempts on the Emperor's life," Tamsyn brooded. "And I worry for the man right now, with no heir named. A successful assassination would throw the entire Empire into chaos, and prevent the true heir from being able to successfully claim his throne."

"What do you want us to do, Boss?" Borkul sighed. "If you're bound and determined to go check this out, at least let Kaie and me go with you."

"Kaie is coming along," Madanach assured him. "But I need you here, Borkul."

"What?" the Orc scowled. "Why her and not me? Besides, she's a better diplomat than me!"

"She knows the Old magicks, old friend," Madanach soothed. "You don't. I'm going to need you to start moving people around. I want you to pull every able body out of Bthardamz and get them to our Redoubts in the southern Reach."

"Uh…Da?" Kaie hesitated. "Won't that call attention to us? All those people on the move?"

"That's where the Matriarchs get involved," Madanach said firmly. "Shadow walk them there."

Elieshandra gasped.

"Do you know what you're asking, Madanach?" she demanded, angrily. "Shadow walking takes a _lot_ of energy!"

"Then you'd best get started," he shot back ruthlessly. "We don't have much choice. As soon as Kaie and the Arch-Mage and me have located a Dominion outpost, I want as many of our people as possible shadow walked there to surround the area and wait for my word. Once we're sure we've found them all, we attack and leave none of them alive."

Tamsyn gasped. She had no idea how many people Madanach governed in the Reach, but it was clear the Alliance had vastly underestimated his influence.

Borkul sighed. "You sure about this, Boss?" he asked, making one last gesture of protest.

Madanach nodded. "I'm sure," he growled. "This is our existence we're talking about. And I don't do anything half-assed. Now go on and make your preparations. Elieshandra, I'm going to need you to stick around a bit. Kaie, go with Borkul and help get people moving. I'll see you later."

"Alright, Da," she sighed, throwing a look of sympathy at Tamsyn, who didn't understand the glance.

"Now," Madanach said briskly when Kaie and Borkul left, "we've got a long way to go and a short time to get there. Tamsyn," he said, surprising her by using her name, "you're a very talented mage. Probably the most talented I've ever seen. But there's one area in which you are sadly deficient."

Tamsyn had an idea where this was leading, but had no idea where it would end up. "I'm assuming you're talking about the Old Magicks?" she surmised.

"Exactly!" Madanach beamed. "See, Ellie? I _knew_ she was smart!"

"Madanach," Elieshandra hissed, "are you _absolutely certain_ this is necessary? She's not even one of us! The Old Gods may reject her out of hand."

The Reach King shrugged. "If they do, we're no worse off than we were before," he said. "I'll vouch for her. That should count for something."

"You'd better hope it's enough," the Matriarch grumbled. "The Old Gods do not like being disturbed for trivial matters."

"I'd hardly call this trivial," Madanach protested.

" _You_ might not," Elieshandra warned, her beady black eyes glittering in the light of the Dwemer lanterns. "But your opinion doesn't really matter, does it?" She turned to head out the door.

Madanach sighed. "Are you going to do it or not, Ellie?" he demanded wearily. "I can always ask Maiara to come up here and supervise."

Elieshandra's feathers fluffed out. "I didn't say I wouldn't do it!" she snapped as Madanach threw a private grin to Tamsyn. "I just need to fetch a few ingredients! I'll be back shortly."

"I don't understand," Tamsyn complained when they were alone. "What did she mean about disturbing the Old Gods? What's going to happen?"

Madanach sat down heavily on the stone bench and patted the seat next to him. Tamsyn obliged by sitting gingerly down on the cold stone.

"In order for us to do what we need to do," he said gently, almost father-like, "you're going to have to become one of us."

"I heard that part," Tamsyn said. "I just didn't understand it. What do I have to do?"

"Nothing," Madanach assured her. "You don't have to do a thing except keep an open mind. Elieshandra is going to perform a ritual to invoke the Old Gods. You'll have to inhale some rather noxious vapors, and you'll be transported – or at least, your mind will be – to the Evereach, where the Gods reside."

"Evereach?" Tamsyn asked. "What's that? I've never heard of that before."

"I'm not surprised," Madanach smiled. "It's our Afterlife; the place we go when we die."

"I thought Reachfolk believe in the Void, and join Sithis there," Tamsyn frowned.

"That's what we let everyone believe," the old Reachman said. "The truth – _our_ truth – is more complicated than that, and we don't share it with outsiders."

"But you're going to share it with me," Tamsyn pointed out.

Madanach nodded. "Because I believe in you, young lady," he smiled, "and that brawny stud of a husband you have." His eyes crinkled. "I believe the two of you are our best hope of having an independent Reach and lasting peace. And to do that, you need to become a Forsworn, a Reachwoman. You're a Breton, so you're halfway there already. Once you're one of us, Elieshandra will invoke the Old Gods, and you'll have to inhale that gunk she brews up. It's pretty bad," he warned her gleefully, enjoying her alarmed expression.

"Then what happens?" Tamsyn asked, trying very hard to quell the feelings of anxiety that were welling up inside.

"Well, if all goes well, you'll be put on trial," he replied.

"I beg your pardon?!"

Madanach laughed at her indignation. "It's not like you've committed a crime or anything," he soothed. "The Old Ones will debate on whether or not to accept you. You'll have to be sponsored – that's where I come in. You see, whenever a child is born in the Reach, a ritual is performed to let the Old Ones know that the child is one of ours, and the father's blood is used."

Tamsyn's anxiety intensified. The Reach King had no idea who her father was, and she wasn't about to tell him. "Uh…Madanach," she said slowly. "I don't have any of my father's blood available."

He nodded. "I know. That's why I'm stepping up to 'adopt' you, if you want to use that term, and use my blood in the ritual. It binds you to me and my family, and allows the Old Gods to acknowledge you as one of us."

Tamsyn considered this. "What happens if the Old Ones reject me?" she asked.

Madanach shrugged. "If that happens, the ritual fails," he replied. "You'll inhale that nasty concoction for nothing, and you won't have the visions. You'll never stand in front of the Old Gods to have them determine your fate. For a Reachman, that's about as bad as it gets."

"And babies go through this?" she asked, incredulous.

Madanach laughed. "No, as I said, babies born in the Reach, to a Forsworn family, go through the birth ritual, which we'll do first," he explained. "After that, they're already acknowledged as part of the extended family. The second part you'll have to go through is rather like the ritual a Briarheart goes through, except we won't be ripping your heart out and replacing it. You'll still have the visions of the trial, though."

"Well, thank goodness for small favors!" Tamsyn breathed, unnerved. "It might help me understand this better if I knew more about the Old Ones," she continued. "Who are they? How did come to be? What do they represent?"

Madanach scratched his head. "Well, that's a lot to get into here, and we don't have a lot of time," he demurred. "Also, I'm no shaman, so I'm probably not the best person to ask those questions to." He paused and collected his thoughts. "Here's what I can tell you, in a nutshell. We have nine observed gods in our pantheon, the same as the Imperials did before the Great War. The chief of our pantheon is Jonvre, who created the Mortal Plane we live in. He's the god of life, time, creation and destruction. He made the world, so he can unmake it any time he chooses."

"A sort of Akatosh and Alduin rolled into one?" Tamsyn suggested.

"Eh…not really," Madanach replied, shaking his head. "I'd say he's more like Lorkhan, if I had to define him. He really goes beyond definition, though. The next most important is Neventer. He's the son of Jonvre, and holds sway over things like wisdom, magic, logic and other forms of guidance. He became incensed when he realized his father had tricked all the gods into creating this world, thus binding them to the mortal plane."

"What did he do?"

Madanach chuckled. "He blew up. Literally. Exploded all over the place, and where bits of him fell, there you will find sources of magicka. It's these sources of magicka that we Forsworn call upon, when we tap into the Old Magicks."

Tamsyn nodded. It wasn't the strangest explanation of magical energy she'd ever heard, but it ranked in the top ten.

"Then there's Kyvnath," Madanach smiled. "Goddess of weather and alchemy, and generally acknowledged at the Mother of all Nature. She's also known as 'Nirniel.'"

"Nirniel?"

"Yes," Madanach answered. "We Forsworn believe that each of the gods are planets we see in the night sky, and that Kyvnath is this one, Nirn. She's the consort of Neventer, and the mother to four of the other gods: Jiae, Drovveg, Halyn and Kavrud."

"I heard Matriarch Elieshandra swear by Jiae earlier," Tamsyn noted.

"She's the patron of the Matriarchs," Madanach supplied. "As such, she's also the goddess of necromancy – which we Forsworn don't have an issue with – as well as disease and sorcery."

"Disease?" Tamsyn perked up. "So that's why you didn't mind the Peryite followers here."

"Partly," Madanach agreed. "Also, because the more you know about a disease, the better chance you have of curing it."

Tamsyn nodded. It made sense. "What domains do the others hold?" she asked.

"Drovveg is the god of death," Madanach explained, "and he keeps watch over our Afterlife, Evereach. If one of the Reachfolk dies, it's assumed it was because they were weak, so our Afterlife is not an easy thing to endure. We think of it as a large rock with a single mountain on it, and the soul has to get to the summit of that mountain. But there are thick forests, catacombs of dead heroes, deadly monsters and rough terrain to overcome before you can get there. When you do, you've proven you're strong enough to return to Nirn."

"So, the Reachfolk believe in reincarnation, then?" Tamsyn clarified.

"A fancy name for being born again," Madanach mused, "but yeah, that's essentially it. Halyn is our god of the Hunt," he continued his narrative. "A lot of uneducated people think we just attached Hircine to our pantheon, but that's not true. Halyn may have started out his godhood by arbitrarily killing all of Kyvnath's creatures, but she was enraged by this and had the animals turn against him and kill him. After a while she relented and brought him back in a kinder, more enlightened frame of mind. Since then, he's been the protector of the beasts, and he taught us that we should only hunt in need, never to excess."

"What about Kavrud?"

"He's the god of war," Madanach said solemnly, "and a brilliant tactician and strategist. He was the one who taught us how to fight our enemies the way we do. Then, he left us on our own."

"He abandoned you?"

"Only the way a parent sends their child out into the world, expecting them to survive with the skills they've taught them," Madanach explained. "Kavrud only intervened once, during the First Era, when he gave a part of himself to a Reachman known as Faolan, the Red Eagle. It was Faolan, with his flaming sword, who drove back the invading armies of Cyrodiil and brought peace to our people."

Tamsyn knew this story. "Until Empress Hestra sent her Legions," she commented.

"Yes," Madanach replied, eyebrows raised in surprise. "I didn't realize anyone else cared about our history," he added. "Yes, Hestra sent her Legions, and Faolan Red Eagle fought them off, one by one, until he was beaten and overcome. In frustration, he went to the Matriarchs and requested they transform him into a spirit of vengeance. He slew thousands of Empress Hestras troops with his flaming sword, but eventually he was mortally wounded. With his dying breath he presented his sword to his followers, telling them that one day, when the Reach is finally free, he would return to lead us once more."

"Where is the sword now?" Tamsyn asked, guardedly, watching him carefully. She knew the answer, but wondered if Madanach did.

"Lost, ages ago," Madanach sighed. "No one knows where it is now, much less where the tomb can be found to return it to him. With that sword, I could have swept the Nords out of the Reach forty years ago!"

Tamsyn gave an inward sigh of relief. She could well imagine the damage Madanach could have done if he'd had such an iconic symbol of the Reach behind which to rally his people. They would have been unstoppable, and thousands – perhaps hundreds of thousands – of innocent people might have died in the ensuing bloodbath. Madanach was, after all, the 'loose cannon' she and Marcus worried about.

"You've told me about seven of your gods," Tamsyn said now, changing the subject. "There are still two others, if you have nine, as you said."

"Yes, of course," Madanach replied. He shook himself, as if to bring himself back from some distant time and place. "I haven't told you about Hithin and Geia yet."

"Gaea?" Tamsyn blurted, startled. That had been her old world. Madanach had pronounced it the same way.

"Geia is our goddess of life, love, healing and creativity," Madanach explained, unaware of her surprise. "She's the sister of Kyvnath, and generally known to be a benevolent goddess, but not without a darker side to her. When Neventer rebelled against his father Jonvre, Geia took Jonvre's side against her sister. She's a bit of an opportunist, and hoped to share in the absorption of the gods' powers, along with Jonvre. When Kyvnath found out, she was furious. But Jonvre had played Geia well, and ended up tricking her into giving up some of her power, just like the others. Jonvre, of course, was eventually defeated by Neventer, and because Geia had taken his side, she was exiled for a time until she completed certain tasks Kyvnath set for her: she was to create all mortal life on Nirn."

"I can imagine that took a while," Tamsyn smiled. "Who is Hithin?"

"She's the sister of Neventer," Madanach replied, "the goddess of dreams, prophecy and visions. I think you'd like her, since you're so good at Divination." He chuckled before sobering. "Her story is a sad one, though."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hmm," he murmured. "When she was young, she was attacked by a crow, which pecked out her eyes. But soon after, she discovered she had prophetic visions. This didn't sit well with the tribe in which she lived. They thought all the bad things happening were caused by her, so they threw her into a deep pit to die."

"How horrible!" Tamsyn exclaimed.

"Just when she thought she would die from weakness and starvation," he continued, "Hithin heard a slithering noise as something entered the pit with her. Terrified, she tried to fight off what turned out to be roots of some kind, come alive, which wrapped around her, binding her tight. They pushed into her empty eye sockets—"

"Augh!" Tamsyn cried in revulsion, but Madanach merely grinned at her.

"And afterwards she realized she could see again," he finished. "She got herself out of her predicament, but found she still had the gift of foresight. She made her way back to her village, and across the river, on a cliff, was a large tree that had not been there before. The villagers surrounded her in fear and awe at her survival in spite of them, and as they watched, the roots of the tree lifted, and the blossoms blew off the branches of the tree."

Tamsyn waited. Madanach seemed done with his tale. "I don't get it," she said finally. "Was there some significance to that last scene?"

Madanach scowled. "I would have thought you, of all people, would have picked up on the allegory," he complained. "Clearly the lifting tree roots symbolized freeing oneself from mundane bonds, and the petals blowing in the wind was the soul freed from its mortal husk. It was at this point that Hithin was ascended to godhood."

"I thought you said she was the sister of Neventer," Tamsyn pointed out. "Wouldn't that have made her a goddess already?"

Madanach shook his head in disgust. "I don't expect you to understand it," he muttered. "But you _did_ ask!"

Elieshandra returned at that moment and announced, "Everything is ready, Madanach. I'll need to prepare her for the ceremony, so if you'll just—"

"I'm leaving, I'm leaving," he grinned, good humor restored. "Arch-Mage, I'll see you in a bit."

Tamsyn watched him leave, only slightly nervous in the company of a Matriarch she didn't know. "What do I have to do?" she asked.

"Put these on," Elieshandra said, handing her a set of Forsworn armor. Tamsyn gulped. The furs left little to the imagination.

"I can't just wear my own robes?" she asked, hopefully.

The Matriarch shook her head. "You have to put your past life behind you to become one of us," she intoned. "That means you have to dress like one of us for the Old Ones to recognize you."

Tamsyn nodded. "Alright," she sighed, undoing the laces at the sides of her tunic. As a young woman in her old world, Tamsyn had spent her twenties in the psychedelic world of the 1960's, and had never been ashamed of her body. Since coming to Tamriel, she had been delighted to find she was once again young and – if her husband was to be believed – beautiful. Captured by the Thalmor and stripped naked four years earlier, she was determined not to be shamed into submission by them, and had eventually – with the help of the Grey Fox – managed to escape from imprisonment. Even the fact that she'd had a child in this world not long ago didn't induce any feelings of self-consciousness. She quickly stripped down to her skin and with Elieshandra's help, stepped into the Forsworn armor. In spite of her long, curving claw-like fingers, the Hagraven was quite deft at managing the fasteners hidden in the furs.

"That looks good," the Matriarch approved. "Now you'll need war paint." She turned and took up a pot of ochre on a side table and expertly applied it to the Arch-Mage's face. Stepping back with a clacking of claws on the stone floor, she nodded. "You'll do," she said finally. "At least, you look like one of us. It will be up to the Old Ones to decide if you belong. Follow me," she continued, leading Tamsyn out the door and down several flights of stone stairs to an area Tamsyn remembered from the game.

It was in the Upper District, and was a large central area with a basin that had once been filled with the green, glowing substance that fed the plague Peryite had inflicted on his subjects. Though the large green roots still wound around the surrounding towers, the basin had been cleared. Somehow the Reachfolk had managed to restore it to its original purpose as a fountain, and the sounds of splashing water was a delightful change from the hiss and grind of Dwemer machinery.

Madanach was standing by the pool, with Kaie and Borkul next to him, and as Tamsyn looked around, she could see a large cauldron had been set up nearby over a campfire, and something was bubbling away in it. Gathered on the steps and balconies surrounding the central plaza were scores of Reachfolk, with a smattering of a few other races besides – the remaining followers of Peryite who had been allowed to remain at Bthardamz.

As they approached Madanach, Elieshandra intoned, "I have brought before you, O Reach King, a supplicant who wishes to join our ranks, and become one with our tribe. Who among those gathered here today objects to this request?"

There was a quiet murmur of voices in the background, but none spoke out against Tamsyn. For many here, it was the first time they had seen the Arch-Mage, even dressed as she was like a Forsworn warrior.

"As there are no objections," Madanach said, "we will honor the supplicant's request and bring her into our tribe. But according to our laws, it will be for the Gods themselves to decide if she is truly one of us."

"She will require a sponsor, and a second," the Matriarch rasped. "Who among you speaks for her?"

"I speak as her second," Kaie said firmly. "I attest to her character, and her skill as a warrior. I have seen her wield her powers for the good of this land we love, and have watched her – through the scrying pools – as she has defeated enemy after enemy."

Tamsyn blinked in surprise. She'd been watched? And she hadn't noticed? How was that possible? She made a mental note to ask Kaie about that later.

Elieshandra seemed satisfied with Kaie's answer. "And who will sponsor this woman?" she asked now, in deep, formal tones. "Who will join their blood with hers, so that she may truly be bound to this land?"

"I will," Madanach said simply, drawing a sharp dagger from his belt.

Elieshandra gave Tamsyn a nudge from behind, and she moved closer to Madanach, who took up her hand. Holding it over a bowl, placed at the edge of the basin, he slit her wrist to allow a steady stream of her blood to splash into the bowl. Tamsyn gasped at the pain, at the swiftness and brutality of the gesture, but she didn't waver. When the bottom of the bowl was covered with her blood, Madanach released her hand, and Elieshandra stepped forward to press a healing spell over the wound, for which Tamsyn was grateful. She wasn't sure if she was allowed to do it herself, and was feeling a bit light-headed.

Meanwhile, Madanach had slit his own wrist, and was letting it flow into the bowl on top of hers. Again, he waited until it completely covered hers before retracting his hand. Elieshandra healed his wound as well. She then took up the bowl and swirled the blood together with the long claw of her forefinger.

"By this blood conjoined are these two people bound, as parent to child," she rasped. "Let all know that from this day, Tamsyn ní Madanach is a child of the Reach!" She presented the bowl to Madanach first, and he brought it to his lips and sipped before handing it off to Tamsyn. There was a curious glint in his eyes which she was unable to decipher.

Hesitating at first – after all, it was _blood,_ and there could be any number of random pathogens hidden within – Tamsyn steeled herself and took a sip. Madanach broke into a wide grin and clapped her on the back as she handed the bowl back to Elieshandra.

"Well done!" he approved. He raised his voice and called out around the plaza. "Everyone! I present to you my daughter, Tamsyn ní Madanach!"

'Ní,' Tamsyn knew, meant 'daughter of' in the language of the Reachfolk.

The crowd broke out into cheers, and the first one to embrace her was Kaie.

"I finally got that sister I always wanted!" she grinned. Tamsyn laughed and hugged her back.

"We are not yet done!"

It was Elieshandra. The crowd backed away and quieted.

"There is but one thing more that needs doing before Tamsyn ní Madanach is truly one of us," she warned. "She must be accepted by the Old Ones. Come, child," she said to Tamsyn, and led her to the cauldron, which was still bubbling merrily away. She removed a handful of something from her belt pouch and threw it into the brew, and several people nearby shifted out of the way of the fumes that arose, purplish-blue, from the huge pot.

"Breathe," she ordered Tamsyn.

Madanach had been correct. It _was_ foul-smelling, and she coughed and choked, but Elieshandra held her arms and wouldn't let her back away until, light-headed and fainting, Tamsyn slumped to the ground.

* * *

 _ ***She doesn't really seem like she belongs, does she?***_ Tamsyn heard a masculine voice say. She focused on that voice and tried to open her eyes, but quickly realized that she didn't really have a form here, merely an awareness of identity.

 _ ***She isn't,***_ said another, this one more feminine. _***It's clear that she's one of THEM.***_

Tamsyn attempted to bring her awareness around to where she perceived the voices to be coming from, but all around her it was dark. She could perceive nothing.

 _ ***Not completely,***_ said a third voice. _***There is still something…mortal…about her.***_

 _I can't see a thing!_ she thought desperately. _How do I defend myself?_

 _ ***You don't,***_ came the amused reply. _***This isn't something you can negotiate.***_

With a sickening feeling Tamsyn realized her thoughts were as apparent as if she'd spoken out loud. But she was determined not to be talked over.

 _How can this be a fair trial, then,_ she argued, _if I can't justify my actions?_

A ripple of amusement enveloped her.

 _ ***Look how she struggles!***_ said the first voice. _***It's quite…charming, actually.***_

 _ ***I think we've seen enough,***_ a fourth voice said in a bored tone. _***Let's get this over with, shall we?***_

 _ ***Not yet,***_ said a fifth. _**"I'm enjoying this. And we've had so little diversion lately.***_

 _ ***It's not a diversion, Jiae,***_ a new voice said. _***Mortals aren't playthings.***_

 _ ***Aren't they, Kyvnath?***_ Jiae replied. _***Isn't that why you forced Geia to populate Mundus?***_

 _ ***Let's get back to the task at hand,***_ a stern voice ordered, and the other voices silenced. _***This is a unique offering. For one of the Aedra to wish to be joined with us has never occurred before. We must consider carefully, lest we risk offending those who currently hold sway over Mundus.***_

 _I'm not one of the Aedra,_ Tamsyn began, but was cut off.

 _ ***Aren't you?***_ It was the stern voice that spoke. _***The blood of the Aedra runs in your veins, as does the blood of mortals. You are a unique hybrid, Tamsyn n**_ _ **í**_ _ **Madanach…or should I say, 'Julianos'?***_

 _Fine then,_ Tamsyn thought with exasperation. _If you acknowledge that I'm at least part Aedra, by your own admission it might be unwise to upset my father._

 _ ***Do not attempt to use our own words against us, mortal,***_ the stern voice warned. _***We must be certain of your motives before we agree to allow you access to our powers.***_

 _I only wish to live,_ Tamsyn said simply. _I want the people of Skyrim to live and survive and thrive. I don't want to see us wiped out by the Dominion simply because we aren't Altmer._

 _ ***Are they still at war?***_ a new voice asked, curious. _***They aren't very good at it, are they, if they still haven't conquered their little corner of Mundus.***_

 _ ***Not everyone is as…devoted…to war as you, Kavrud,***_ Jiae replied in a sour tone.

 _ ***The child has a point, though,***_ a shy voice interjected. _***If these Altmer are successful in their endeavors, they will exterminate all our people, and we will cease to be.***_

 _ ***You've Seen this, Hithin?***_ the stern voice demanded.

 _ ***It is one of the future possibilities, Jonvre,***_ Hithin answered. _***Even if they do not succeed in their war, their retributions against our people will be terrible. The day comes soon when our own existence will hang in the balance. I, for one, support the inclusion of Tamsyn n**_ _ **í**_ _ **Madanach into our tribe.***_

 _ ***These are grave words, Sister,***_ the first voice said, and Tamsyn realized it must be Neventer speaking.

 _ ***These are grave times,***_ she replied calmly.

 _ ***Very well,***_ the stern voice, Jonvre decided. _***We will debate this in the light.***_

It was suddenly excruciatingly bright, and though Tamsyn had no corporeal form, she recoiled for a moment. When she became aware of her surroundings, she realized she floated in a semi-circle of other beings of light, brighter than the surroundings. She turned her awareness away, as it was too painful to look upon.

 _ ***I forgot how fragile mortals are,***_ Jonvre chuckled, amused. _***We will take forms you may comprehend more easily,***_ he offered. His light, which had pulsed as he spoke, dissolved into the form of a venerable Reachman, and the other Old Ones did the same. Tamsyn realized she also had been given the semblance of her physical form, though she was transparent, and could see through her own body.

 _ ***Does this meet with your approval?***_ Jonvre asked in a condescending tone. Tamsyn bowed in reply.

 _It does help. Thank you, my lord,_ she replied.

The chief of the Old Gods was an imposing figure, burly and muscled, as most Reachmen were, wearing an elaborate mantle of dark furs over his hide and bone armor. The antlers on his helm were larger than any Tamsyn could recall seeing, and deep-set eyes burned out of the headgear to bore into her soul. She felt she was being measured, and the Lord of the Old Ones was not impressed with what he saw.

 _ ***Let us return to the debate at hand, then,***_ one of the women said, and Tamsyn recognized Kyvnath's voice. _***It is two-fold. The first: do we accept Tamsyn ní Madanach as one of us. The second: who will be her Patron?***_ She was every inch the Forsworn shaman, in her leather and feathers, with animal skulls that adorned her belt, and beads of bone and shell that dripped from the gold eagle headdress crowning her head. She carried a spear whose tip glowed with a bright, inner light, and Tamsyn could sense the enormous power contained within it.

 _ ***We will consider the first part,***_ Jonvre decided. _***What are the reasons for inclusion or denial, and what are the consequences of denial?***_

 _ ***I should think the reason for denial has already been stated,***_ Neventer said. Appearing as an older Reachman, his long hair ringed his balding pate, and beads hung from his moustache that grew past his mouth on either side, joining his beard. The staff he carried twisted along its length, dividing into three spires that caged a glowing white orb. _***You yourself suggested it would offend the Aedra if we reject her.***_

 _ ***That's never been a concern of yours before, Jonvre,***_ one of the men said. He had been the one earlier to suggest ending the debate before it had begun. _***If I recall correctly, you seem to have made a habit of flouting the authority of the Aedra in the past.***_

He was younger in appearance, but resembled Neventer in his facial features. The antlers on his headdress weren't as large as Jonvre's, and the furs he wore were lighter and more mottled in color. A powerful Forsworn bow and quiver of arrows hung off his back.

 _ ***We aren't going to bring that into this debate, Halyn,***_ Jonvre said darkly. _***The Aedra currently have more power than we do. To incur their wrath would be foolish. But there are ways to reject her without upsetting her father or his cronies.***_

 _ ***How?***_ a female asked, curious. She hadn't spoken before, but she resembled Kyvnath so much that Tamsyn assumed her to be Geia, Kyvnath's sister. She had been the one who had attempted to betray the others, taking Jonvre's side in their ancient battle for supremacy. She was as fair as Kyvnath was dark, and as voluptuous as her sister was lean. Her hair curled riotously around her face, caught by a silver circlet, engraved to resemble overlapping feathers. She didn't wear the typical Forsworn armor, but instead was draped in silks of rich colors and intricate patterns, their sheerness leaving little to the imagination.

 _ ***By not using her divine blood as a reason,***_ Jonvre said simply. _***Without it, she is merely a talented mage, but not really a warrior. The only reason she can hold her own in a fight at all is because she draws on the reserves of that divine power. You can see she's already tapped into it at least twice.***_

Tamsyn was suddenly very conscious of the two locks of white hair on either side of her face, which suddenly glowed of their own accord as Jonvre spoke.

 _ ***This is true,***_ Jiae said shrewdly. _***A true child of the Reach would not have to call upon the Aedra to help her win a fight.***_ Jiae was an intimidating figure in her own right; she resembled a full-fledged Matriarch of the Reach, though more full-figured, and without the crow-like legs. The power exuding from her was overwhelming.

Tamsyn felt her heart sink. Was she really any good at magic at all? Or had she leaned too heavily upon her divine origins to supplement her talents?

 _ ***No,***_ Kyvnath agreed. _***A true child of the Reach would call upon her Patron. How is that any different from what this child has done up until now?***_

 _ ***Ordinary mortals don't have a conduit to the Aedra,***_ one of the males said. He had not spoken before, and was covered in feathers as black and iridescent as a raven's. Tamsyn assumed he must be Drovveg, the god of death, as corvids often gathered around the deceased to scavenge.

 _ ***Neither do ordinary Reachfolk with us, Drovveg***_ Neventer replied, confirming Tamsyn's suspicions, and taking his consort's side. Kyvnath threw him a grateful look. _***Not all the Reachfolk call upon us in battle, yet all are connected to the land. And all of them end up in Evereach in the end.***_

 _ ***This one will not be coming to Evereach,***_ Drovveg insisted, glaring balefully at Tamsyn with deeply sunken eyes. _***In my opinion, that is as good a reason as any to reject her. And it has little to do with her blood.***_

 _ ***It has everything to do with it, and you know it, Drovveg,***_ Neventer scowled.

 _ ***I believe it may be unwise to assume the child has no talent beyond her blood,***_ Hithin said mildly, breaking through the antagonism between the two. She stared directly ahead of her, seeing nothing and everything. She was dressed in a simple robe of midnight blue, trimmed in silver, her long black hair caught back behind her neck in a plain leather thong. _***She has already demonstrated an ability to reason outside the restrictions of magic. Who else has successfully created an enchantment that gives her the ability to fly, as dragons do?***_

 _ ***That IS impressive,***_ Jiae admitted. _***But one could argue that she has an unfair advantage. Her soul spent time in another realm; a realm of technology, where magic does not exist.***_

 _ ***And yet,***_ Kyvnath reminded them, _***rather than change our world to resemble her old one, she adapted what she knew to her new world. That shows initiative and imagination, as well as talent.***_

There was a murmur of agreement among the divine beings, though somewhat grudgingly on the part of a few.

 _ ***Let us decide the first part,***_ Jonvre declared. _***Do we accept Tamsyn ní Madanach as a true Child of the Reach?***_

 _ ***Aye,***_ said Neventer, Kyvnath, Hithin and, surprisingly, Jiae.

 _ ***Nay,***_ answered Drovveg.

 _ ***Abstain,***_ Halyn replied.

 _ ***Kavrud? Geia?***_ Jonvre prompted.

Kavrud appeared deep in thought, frowning fiercely. Geia simply shrugged.

 _ ***I'm just waiting to see what the rest of you decide,***_ she dismissed.

 _ ***Typical,***_ Jiae snorted under her breath.

 _ ***You can't sit this one out, Geia,***_ Jonvre rumbled. _***Make a choice.***_

 _ ***Why? You let Halyn abstain.***_ At his glare, she capitulated. _***Oh, alright! Fine, then. Aye,***_ she pouted.

 _ ***Kavrud?***_ Jonvre turned back to the god of war.

 _ ***There will be war, whether I say 'aye' or 'nay',***_ he mused. _***The real question is whether our people will be better off with her, or without her.***_

 _ ***I thought Hithin already made that clear, Kavrud,***_ Neventer said in exasperation.

 _ ***Hithin only shared ONE possibility, Neventer,***_ Kavrud pointed out. _***There are always others. And who is to say which one will win the day? I vote nay. We do not need outsiders fighting our battles for us.***_

 _ ***Jonvre?***_ Kyvnath prompted. _***We have not yet heard your decision.***_

 _ ***It matters little,***_ he replied. _***Five of you believe we should accept her. That is a majority.***_

 _ ***You are the chief of all of us,***_ Halyn pointed out. _***Surely you could overrule the others?***_

 _ ***I could,***_ Jonvre agreed, _***but I choose not to at this time.***_

 _ ***Then you agree we should accept her?***_ Neventer pressed his father.

 _ ***That brings us to the second part of this debate,***_ Jonvre allowed with a mischievous smile. _***I will accept her if one of you agrees to be her Patron, and to be responsible for her actions.***_

The others were silent, and Tamsyn had the feeling this was something they were reluctant to do, even the ones who had spoken on her behalf. It might have been one thing to agree to accept her as a Reachwoman, but to be answerable for anything Tamsyn did from here on out was quite another thing entirely.

Jonvre gave a smug smile, as if he knew this would be the sticking point.

 _ ***Without a Patron, it matters little if we accept her,***_ he gloated. _***With no one to accept responsibility for her, we can reject her without fear of reprisals from the Aedra.***_

There was silence around the semi-circle, and none of the divines would look directly at her, as if by doing so they would give a tacit acceptance of her as their protégée. Only blind Hithin stared with vacant eyes, but Tamsyn knew the goddess wasn't seeing her.

It was Hithin who finally spoke.

 _ ***I will guide her,***_ she said, and the others gasped. Jonvre frowned.

 _ ***Be ye certain of this, Hithin,***_ he warned. _***If she misuses our gifts, or breaks our laws, it will be laid at your feet.***_

 _ ***I am aware of that, Jonvre,***_ she replied calmly, though a slight frown of irritation creased her brow. _***I will ensure that Tamsyn ní Madanach minds our ways.***_

 _ ***Do any object?***_ Jonvre demanded. There was an almost hopeful lilt in his voice, and Tamsyn waited nervously. But silence descended once more, and Jonvre scowled.

 _ ***So be it, then,***_ he declared. _***Tamsyn ní Madanach, you are, from this day forward, a Child of the Reach. Do not disappoint us.***_

The images blurred, and lost shape as he spoke, and Tamsyn felt herself falling, though she had no corporeal form.

 _ ***Do not worry, Child of Mine,***_ Hithin's voice whispered in her mind. _***I will be there to guide you, I promise.***_

All went black, and Tamsyn floated for an undetermined amount of time before she realized she could open her eyes. The cavern over her head was laced with brilliant green roots, and towers of Dwemer construction edged into view. She was back in Bthardamz, if she had ever left it to begin with.

"Quite the trip, wasn't it?" Madanach grinned, helping her to her feet. "It would seem the Old Ones decided to accept you after all. Tell me," he inquired, curious, "which one was it who spoke for you?"

"I…I think about half of them did, at one point or another," Tamsyn replied, unsteadily. Her head was still swimming from the miasma Elieshandra had made her inhale. She glanced around and realized the crowd had dispersed. Only the Matriarch, Madanach and Kaie remained. "How long was I out?"

"A couple hours," Kaie shrugged. "That's not unusual. And Da, you should know better than to ask who her Patron is. That's rude!"

"Can't blame an old man for being curious," he said defensively. "And anyway, you're right. I apologize, Arch—uh, I suppose I should call you 'daughter,' now?"

Tamsyn gave a weak chuckle. "Just 'Tamsyn' is fine, Madanach," she smiled. "Unless you want me to call you 'Da', now?"

"Only if you want to," he said, agreeably.

"What happens now?" the Arch-Mage asked. "We still have a lot to do."

"We're already moving people into position," Kaie said. "We have many redoubts in the southern Reach, not the least of which is Lost Valley Redoubt. From those encampments we can move our people into position as soon as we find the Thalmor outposts."

"I'm not so sure we should be attacking them," Tamsyn said. "That might precipitate aggressions we aren't ready for."

"Tamsyn," Madanach said sternly, "this is what we've been training for, the last half-dozen years. If not now, then when? I'm not getting any younger, and I want to make sure my people are free from any kind of enslavement – Nord, Imperial or Altmer! If we don't take the fight to them, we run the risk of losing the element of surprise, and our momentum at the same time."

"I know, I know!" Tamsyn sighed. "I'm just worried that we won't be prepared for the backlash. Because it _will_ come. The Thalmor won't take this sitting down."

"Oh, I hope not!" Madanach grinned.

"You can laugh," Tamsyn brooded. "But will Balgruuf? Will Ulfric? Will Tullius or the Emperor? What if the Dominion makes another attempt on Titus Mede's life, because we've stirred up a hornet's nest here?"

"That Grey Fox friend of yours, who pretends to be a diplomat, will have people in place to protect the old guy," Madanach said, confidently.

"I'm sure he does," Tamsyn acknowledged. "But will it be enough?"

* * *

Marcus and Dante returned to Windhelm after leaving Raldbthar, so the Dragonborn could deliver Aegisbane back to Clan Shatter-shield. Torbjorn was grateful to have his ancestral hammer returned to him – and the Dragonborn was grateful to unload the weight of it from his back. Torbjorn was so grateful, in fact, that he rather foolishly invited Marcus to "ask anything of me…anything…and if it's within my power, you'll get it."

"Well," Marcus mused, narrowing his eyes and rubbing the beard on his chin. "I know the Argonians you've hired to work the docks on your behalf are struggling. I've spoken to Scouts-Many-Marshes about this before, but never had an opportunity to discuss it with you. You're making plenty of money off their labor – more than enough to ensure they're making a decent wage. More money in their pocket means more money they can afford to put back into Windhelm's economy, which means you'll be making more money off your investments. It's what a responsible business owner and investor does. A stagnant economy helps no one."

Torbjorn was flustered. No one had dared speak to him about 'those beast folk' in this manner before. "A good Nord is worth seven times what an Argonian—"

"No," Marcus cut him off. "The Good Book says, 'the laborer is worthy of his hire.' Either cut the Nords' wages – which they'd probably keelhaul you over – or pay the Argonians the same as the Nords. In the long run, you'll make more money."

Torbjorn wasn't sure which book the Dragonborn referred to, but it really didn't matter at this point. He was more concerned about his out-of-pocket expenses and loss of profit. "No offense, Dragonborn," Torbjorn said skeptically, "but just how would you know?"

Marcus shrugged. "It's what I do in every Hold where I'm Thane," he replied. "I invest in the local businesses. You don't think I can afford to maintain a half-dozen homes on what I find digging through barrows and ruins, do you? Look, you said yourself you owed me a favor for returning your family's artifact. And I wasn't even going to bring up the fact that I discovered your daughter's murderer. I'm calling that favor in now. Pay your workers more. Do that, and we're squared."

Torbjorn glanced at his wife, Tova, who was standing quietly by, glaring at him. He knew that look. There would be no peace in his house if he didn't cave in.

"Alright, Dragonborn," he sighed. "You've got it. I'll pay the Argonians the same wages I pay the Nords."

Tova gave a slight nod and smile, and Marcus beamed. "That's all I ask, Torbjorn," he replied, satisfied. "I'll go let Scouts know."

The Argonian was down at the docks, of course, hauling heavy sacks of ore from one of the Shatter-shield ships to a pallet near the Argonian Assembly. His slitted green eyes widened in amazement when Marcus informed him of the good news, and the frill on the back of his head lifted in delight.

"You finally talked Torbjorn down?" he breathed, incredulous. "I can hardly believe it! This is fantastic! Finally! Perhaps now we can strive to get ahead here in Windhelm!"

"There's still a long way to go towards normalizing relations in Windhelm between Argonians and Nords," Marcus warned him.

"But it's a lot farther than we've come in a handful of years," Scouts grinned, showing all his teeth. "Here, I want you to have this," he continued, retrieving a satchel of potions from his workstation, and pressing them into Marcus' arms. But the Dragonborn gently refused.

"I didn't do it for a reward, Scouts," Marcus told the Argonian kindly, "but because it was the right thing to do. I'm only sorry it took me so long to finally talk to Torbjorn about it. I should have done this as soon as we talked last time."

"You were busy," Scouts said generously. "I understand that. You're the Dragonborn, and you have a lot of irons in the fire. Well, if you won't take these, please take this, from me, as a personal thank you." He pulled a silver amulet from around his neck and presented it to Marcus. "It's made in the traditional Saxhleel style of my people, and was given to me by my egg-mother."

"I can't take this!" Marcus protested. "Something like this should be passed down to your children!"

"Well, I don't have any of those," Scouts remarked. He paused, gave a wry smile and chuckled, "That I know of, anyway. Take it, my friend. It gives me great pleasure to know it now belongs to you."

Marcus accepted the amulet and put it around his neck, then shook the Argonian's hand. "Thank you, Scouts," he said sincerely. "I'll treasure it, always!"

He rejoined Dante Greyshadow, who had been selling off several of the items they had picked up in Raldbthar. The Guildmaster hefted a large pouch of coin at him.

"Here's your share," Dante said. "I kept the gold ingots we found, since I want to make some jewelry from them, so the difference is made up in that pouch."

"You make jewelry?" Marcus queried, lifting an eyebrow. He tucked the pouch into his backpack. Somehow, he didn't think Greyshadow was the crafting-type of person.

"I dabble," Dante shrugged. "I learned the basics from an old jeweler in Cyrodiil. It was mostly for the purpose of creating forgeries, you see," he explained, unashamed. "But now I do it mainly to enchant the items and sell them off in my shop."

Marcus shook his head. "Anything to make a septim, eh?" he commented, rolling his eyes.

"One does what one must," the Guildmaster replied guilelessly. "Now, where is this Forge located?"

"Let's head over to the Candlehearth," Marcus suggested. "I need food. I'll buy."

"I won't say no," Dante agreed amiably.

They found a table in a tucked-away corner upstairs in the Candlehearth, and after their meal, Marcus pulled out Katria's journal and opened it to her map of Skyrim.

"This should be the place right here," Marcus pointed, tapping the number five Katria had drawn. "Down here at the bottom of the Rift. It's not an obvious Dwemer ruin, but there's a scattering of stones and walls there, including a monument that has some kind of astrolabe or something on it. I've been by there several times, usually to clear out bandits who like to roost there. It's near where the Imperial camp used to be, before the Civil War was resolved."

"Think we'll have to excavate?" Dante queried.

Marcus shrugged. "I have no idea," he said honestly. "Like I said, there's not much there. I'm not even sure how we're supposed to use the pieces of aetherium we found. Tamsyn wouldn't tell me."

"Why not?" Dante asked, surprised. "I thought she knew everything about this little quest of ours."

"Oh, she does, trust me," Marcus said sourly. "She knows more than she tells. The only thing she would say is that we would figure it out once we got there."

"I guess we'll have to be content with that," Dante shrugged.

In the interest of expediency, in case the Thalmor were one step ahead of them, the two men left Windhelm after their meal and walked to the outskirts, near the stables, where Marcus called for Odahviing. The great red dragon soon appeared, and in a short time they were airborne once more, winging their way southward over the Aalto plain towards the Rift.

As they neared their destination, another dragon appeared in the skies. It was Firefall, Marcus realized, and he recognized Benor sitting astride the younger, smaller red dragon, who ducked his head in deference to Odahviing, who rumbled a greeting to his _zeymah_.

Benor motioned they should land to talk, and both dragons made lazy circles, descending into an open clearing to drop off their riders.

"Marcus!" the hazel-eyed Nord greeted him. He was wearing the lighter version of the Blades armor that had been redesigned to accommodate the dragon riders. "It's good to see you! I was going to put this in a report, but I'm glad I caught up with you!"

"Benor, this is Councilor Lance de Fer," Marcus introduced quickly. "I don't know if you've met him yet."

"I haven't," Benor replied, shaking his head. His once-shaggy brown hair had been cropped close to fit under the streamlined helmet he wore when riding, which had been fit with glass lenses, to allow the riders to keep their eyes open while flying. Marcus had simply gotten used to riding without one. Benor took the helmet off now, and presented his hand to Dante, who clasped wrists with him in greeting. "It's good to meet you, Councilor."

"What's your news, Benor?" Marcus asked. "Have you found anything in this end of the Jeralls?"

"Not in the Rift," Benor answered. "But as Firefall and I crossed over the border into Falkreath Hold, I saw something rather odd near the Pale Pass."

"Something odd?"

"Yeah, there was a lot of movement at night, through the Serpentine Trail," the Nord explained. "They kind of stood out against the snow."

"Serpentine Trail?" Marcus echoed. "I'm not familiar with that. Where is it?"

"It's west of the Pale Pass," Dante told him. "It used to be a way for smugglers to get their goods past the Pass and the Imperial Legion guarding it. At least, it was up until the Great War, when the fortress under there was attacked by goblins, and the whole place was sealed off."

"Goblins? You're kidding!" Marcus felt like an idiot for parroting everything related to him, but he'd never heard of goblins before within the context of Tamriel.

"Yes, goblins," Dante replied, slightly exasperated. "You've fought Falmer. You've been through an Oblivion gate and have seen daedra. Why should you doubt goblins exist?"

"I'm sorry," Marcus mumbled. "You're right. It's just that I've never heard them mentioned outside of fairy tales before."

"They're real," Dante assured him. "I've seen them. I made an attempt to get through Serpentine Trail, once, many years ago." He eyed Benor warily, unsure how much the Nord knew of his true identity. Seeing this, Marcus quickly changed the subject.

"This 'movement' you saw, Benor," he said now, "coming out of the Serpentine Trail? Which direction was it headed?"

"North," Benor said now. "They followed the road, in small groups of maybe a dozen or so that I could see, and they took the west fork around the hills. Almost like they were trying to avoid being seen by anyone at Fort Neugrad."

"And how many figures in all, do you think?" Dante asked.

"I dunno," Benor admitted. "I was kind of high up, on Firefall, y'see. I didn't wanna call attention to myself. I'd say at least a hundred or so. Maybe more, maybe less. But they all went to Helgen, then disappeared inside the ruined buildings. I stayed long enough to make sure of that."

"When was this?" Marcus asked.

"Two nights ago," Benor said. "I was heading out there again tonight, to see if any more would come through the trail and go up to Helgen…or any place else in Falkreath."

"And these are just the ones Benor has seen," Dante frowned. "We don't know how long they've been doing this."

"Tamsyn and Madanach may be walking right into a hornet's nest," Marcus worried. "I should let her know. Thanks, Benor!" he said, staunchly. "Keep an eye out for any more troop movements – from a discreet distance, of course. The Councilor and I have something we need to do first, but as soon as that's done, we'll head to Falkreath and see about joining Tamsyn and Madanach."

Benor returned to a waiting Firefall, and soon the two were aloft, winging their way back towards Dragonpeak Eyrie.

Marcus tapped his ear bud and concentrated on his wife.

"Tamsyn? Are you there?"

" _I'm here, my love,"_ came the reply. _"What's up?"_

Marcus relayed to her what Benor had told them, and Tamsyn promised she and Madanach would be careful.

" _Kaie has joined us as well,"_ she informed him.

"Madanach's daughter?" Marcus blurted in surprise.

" _And my second in command,"_ came Madanach's voice faintly over the ear bud. _"She insisted, and I think it's a good idea."_

Marcus nodded. "I do, too, Madanach. You guys be careful. We don't know what's going on, but it looks like things are heating up."

" _Oh, I sincerely hope so!"_ Madanach replied, and Marcus could hear the grin in his voice. _"This ought to be fun!"_

Marcus shook his head as he signed off. "That man has a strange definition of 'fun'."

He made another call, to Balgruuf this time, and informed the Jarl of Whiterun of what might be happening on his southern border.

" _Into Helgen, you say, Dragonborn?"_ the Jarl queried.

"That's right," Marcus confirmed. "Those tunnels and caves under the keep could hold an entire army down there and we'd never know it. And the fact that they're sneaking in there under cover of darkness isn't a good sign."

" _I'll send more troops to Riverwood, then,"_ Balgruuf promised _. "They'll likely be the first place to get hit, if the Dominion tries to push into my Hold."_

"Good idea," Marcus agreed. "The Councilor and I will finish up as soon as we can, then I'll head over to Falkreath to see what's going on there. I'm worried Tamsyn and Madanach might have bitten off more than they can chew."

" _Good luck, Dragonborn!"_

Marcus ended the connection and turned to the Guildmaster, who was scowling at him.

"You're going to walk into Falkreath without back-up?" Dante frowned.

Marcus sighed. "As much as I'm getting used to having you around, Greyshadow," he said, "I think you're going to have to head back to Cyrodiil as soon as we're done here. I think the Dominion will be making their move very soon." It worried him, letting Greyshadow head back alone, because a lone Dominion assassin could end the Guildmaster's life and dash all their hopes with it, but the Breton man couldn't stay here. He needed to be close to his network.

Dante nodded. "You're right, of course," he agreed. "I have good people protecting my grandfather…some of my best, in fact. But he still hasn't named an heir, and that is a critical weak link in all of this."

 _It's not your grandfather I'm worried about,_ Marcus thought, but said nothing aloud.

"How much further?" Dante asked now.

"Not much," Marcus replied, consulting his map. "We should be able to get there from here by walking. Shouldn't take more than a quarter-hour. With any luck, the dragons scared off any bandits."

"Oh, I hope not!" Dante grinned. Marcus rolled his eyes.

"You're as bad as Madanach," he said sourly.

There were bandits, as Dante had hoped, and the two men could see them battling the ghostly figure of a Nord woman as they approached. But ruffians like these were really no match for a Nightingale and a Dragonborn. When it was over, Katria approached them.

" _You made it!"_ she crowed. _"And you brought the shards!"_

"They're all here," Dante assured her, patting his haversack. "What do we do now?"

" _This is all that's left of the Dwemer city of Bthalft,"_ Katria said. _"Not much to look at, is it now, for as important as it once was."_

Indeed, there wasn't much left – at least, above ground. Marcus wonder if, like many Dwarven cities he'd been in – particularly Blackreach – there was more under the surface. What they could see was limited to a few stone arches, a sort of plaza area, and a central pedestal on which rested the astrolabe Marcus had seen in the past, the few times he had been here.

" _Take a look at this device, here,"_ Katria invited, leading them to the astrolabe. _"The gear in the center is just about the right size. Try putting the shards in and...we'll see what happens."_

Marcus shrugged, and Dante pulled the four pieces from his haversack. It took some doing, to put them in, not only in the right configuration, but also in the correct order. Two of them wouldn't quite fit on the bottom layer, and needed to be swapped with the two on the top. When that was done, the ground trembled, as it had done back at Arkngthamz, and both men froze, ready for action. But nothing happened.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Dante queried, lifting a skeptical eyebrow.

" _It has to be,"_ Katria insisted. _"There's no place else it could be, according to my research. Try…taking it out again?"_ she suggested.

Marcus did, and a sudden violent tremor shook the area.

" _Everyone! Get back!"_ Katria yelled, and they all scrambled back to a safe distance off the plaza.

With a loud roar and whoosh, the center portion of the paved, circular area lifted suddenly into the air, and Marcus couldn't help letting out an appreciative "Whoa!" at the cleverness and ingenuity of the Dwemer.

Inside the newly-formed tower was a typical Dwemer lift.

" _Come on!"_ Katria said gleefully. _"Let's see where this leads to!"_ She hurried into the lift and waited for them, shifting her balance excitedly from one side to the other.

Marcus made sure they were all on the lift platform before throwing the lever, and down they went.

A long way down.

Just how deep the lift went would forever be a mystery. They stepped out, and Dante pulled at the collar of his armor.

"Whew! It's warm down here!" he exclaimed. "I haven't been this warm since Hammerfell!"

" _That took forever!"_ Katria agreed. _"How deep are we?"_

"I don't know," Marcus replied, "but it looks like there's a set of stairs down this way."

As they approached the top, a brazier ignited. The two men looked at each other.

"I swear I didn't step on anything!" Marcus protested, raising his hands in defense.

" _Just another funny quirk of the Dwemer, I'm sure,"_ Katria said. _"They tended to automate just about everything in their daily lives."_

"Which means we should be prepared for anything," Dante cautioned, drawing his sword, Inferno.

They descended the long flight of steps, which led to a land bridge over rushing water scores of feet below, spanning the distance to a pinnacle of rock where a partial wall sat to one side. Surmounted on the wall was the iconic bust of a long-forgotten Dwemer, and in front of that sat a stone table. Bits of dwarven metal and pieces of automatons rested upon it, along with two coins. They were not septims.

"I'll be damned," Marcus swore softly, picking them up to examine them. They were made of gold, but were octagonal in shape, with a stylized Dwemer profile on one side, and a geometric design on the other, which all of them had seen on small pieces of plate metal used in making the animunculi – including a piece of which lay on the table with the other items.

" _These are old!"_ Katria whistled in envy. _"At least four or five thousand years! I've only ever seen sketches of them before."_

"I think this one will go in my private collection," Dante grinning, tucking it into his belt pouch.

"I've never collected coins before," Marcus agreed, "so this will be a first." He secured his safely in his pouch as well, and the three made their way across the second land bridge that connected the pinnacle to the main complex. The sounds of the roaring water echoed deeply in the vast cavern, that was so enormous they couldn't see the roof of it over their heads, or tell how much further in any direction it might have gone.

The approach to the Forge, if that was that this truly was, was impressive. Duals flights of stairs climbed past a central monument with the same astrolabe featured as they had seen outside. On raised daises to either side were oversized statues of Dwemer spheres. Behind this, another dual flight of steps with a center ramp led up to the main edifice. Both men eyed the ramp suspiciously, but nothing activated.

" _Problem?"_ Katria asked, innocently.

"No," Marcus denied, swallowing hard. "No problem at all."

"Why would you ask that?" Dante countered, but he, too, took a deep, steadying breath before starting the climb.

Neither one saw her grin behind their backs.

The stairs led them to a courtyard with benches and a small garden area that featured one sickly yellow, nearly-dead tree. A large, towered building loomed at the far end of the courtyard, the façade of which looked very similar to the one in Arkngthamz, complete with Dwemer busts and resonators. Here, however, there were only two of the spinning activators, and no signs of anyone having failed to open the bronze barred gates, though Katria tried.

 _"Door's shut tight,"_ she announced. _"I bet those Resonators would open it, though."_

"Go ahead," Marcus invited the Guildmaster. Dante pulled Zephyr off his back and nocked an arrow.

"Which one first?" he asked.

" _I don't think it makes a difference,"_ Katria shrugged.

"Are you sure?" Dante frowned. "Mistakes like this can be costly."

" _I don't see any kind of hatch for machines to come out of, if that's what you're worried about."_

"That's part of it," Dante muttered drily. "Okay, here we go."

He pulled back and hit the first resonator on the left, then the one on the right in rapid succession, then swiftly sheathed Zephyr and pulled out Inferno again in a matter of heartbeats.

With a whoosh of steam, the mouths of the busts opened, spilling water into the pools below them, and the gates pulled back, allowing them access. Otherwise, all was still.

They silently entered and descended a sloping hallway which turned sharply to the left and continued down.

 _"The air here..."_ Katria murmured. _"It feels different. Almost like..."_

She didn't finish her thought, as they came into another large chamber, that sweltered with heat. The reason was obvious. The entire area had been built over a lake of lava. To either side, stairs climbed up to a partial mezzanine, but it was the machine in front of them, at the other end of the room, that immediately caught their attention. Situated on the edge of the worked stone, with a grate of bronzed metal embedded in the floor in front of it, it defied description. Huge turbines, fitted with pipes at least three feet in diameter, were flanked with pumps and pistons which remained unmoving, as they had for thousands of years. More pipes and valves ran along the stone facing of the mezzanines, and superheated steam rose in waves from under the grating, distorting the images of what they could see.

" _This has to be it!"_ Katria exulted. _"The Aetherium Forge!"_

"We can't cross that," Marcus coughed. "We'll be parboiled before we get halfway there!"

" _See if you can't find a way to shut off the steam,"_ Katria advised, coughing as well, though Marcus wondered how it could affect her, since she was a ghost. Perhaps she was having sympathy symptoms, knowing what this must be doing to her two living companions.

Marcus and Dante split up, each heading up the stairs to the upper levels. Finding the valves, they turned them, the metal squeaking as if long unused, and were rewarded when the steam began to dissipate, though it was still hotter than Oblivion in the chamber. As the two men rejoined Katria, the pipes and valves on either side of the first floor Forge area glowed with electricity.

" _Now what?"_ Katria groaned irritably. To be so close, and suffer yet another delay!

"Get ready!" Marcus snapped. "Looks like the traps are still active in here!"

The first wave was a series of Dwemer spiders that scuttled and leaped, clawing with their metal pincers or shocking them with bursts of electricity. Marcus tried very hard to watch Dante's back, mindful of Tamsyn's warning. He stayed close to the Guildmaster and endeavored to keep from stepping out onto the grating where magma bubbled not far below the floor. The heat didn't help. It made fighting just that much more difficult, and both men were sweating profusely, and panting for air before the first wave of spiders had been defeated. Steam was beginning to billow up again, and they both bolted for the shut-off valves, spinning them viciously to quell the superheated fog.

The next wave of automatons rolled out, quite literally. The spheres were larger than any Marcus had seen before, and there were too many of them.

"Pull back!" he yelled.

"Where?" Dante demanded. "The stairs retracted into the wall as soon as we spun those valves!"

" _Stick together,"_ Katria urged. _"We can do this!"_ She slashed out with her ethereal blades, and by focusing her will, she smashed one of the spheres against the stairs. Another caught her from behind, and in two strokes, she had vaporized. Marcus knew she'd be back, but it meant they wouldn't have her assistance in this fight.

Grimly, the Dragonborn and the Nightingale fought on, back-to-back, against the spheres and spiders that kept coming. The piles of debris at their feet continued to grow. At length, there was a pause. The steam was boiling away again, but it seemed the automatons had stopped. Both men pulled restorative potions from their satchels and downed them swiftly.

"We still need to stop the steam," Marcus said wearily. He ached all over, in spite of the potions, and Dante nodded his head bleakly. His armor had been slashed in several places, though he had at least been able to heal his wounds.

" _I'm so sorry, Marcus…Dante,"_ Katria apologized as she reappeared. Dante gave her a weak smile.

"Can't be helped," he allowed kindly. "It just means you get to stick around for the next act."

" _Can we make it to the Forge yet?"_ she asked.

"Not quite," Marcus said. "Or at least, Greyshadow and I can't. We've got to turn those valves again. And who knows what else this place is going to throw at us?"

"I don't know about you, Dragonborn," Dante said sourly, "but I'm a bit reluctant to turn that wheel again."

"I know what you mean," Marcus nodded. "I'm a little bow-shy myself, but it's got to be done."

They rose and separated once more, giving each other a nod across the room as they threw their weight behind the valves. The wheels screeched, the steam subsided once more, and for a long moment there was silence.

A tentative smile broke out on Marcus' face that was quickly chased away when something ponderously heavy thudded from the direction of the lava lake.

" _What in Oblivion is that?"_ Katria cried, pointing.

It was a Centurion. But it was the largest Centurion any of them had ever seen. It rose like an Atronach made of Dwemer metal that seemed somehow untouched by the infernal temperatures in which it resided.

At first, Marcus thought it would not be able to clamber into the Forge chamber, but he quickly realized with horror that it was ascending some sort of ramp built into the side of the stone for that very purpose.

"How in Oblivion are we going to stop that thing?" Dante demanded.

"The same way we do the smaller ones," Marcus shot back. "We whittle him down to size! _FO KRAH DIIN!"_

The column of frost sped towards the gigantic metal monster, but dissipated in the heat before it could hit. Marcus realized he would have to get closer, and that was the one thing he didn't want to do!

" _Ranged attacks!"_ Katria shouted, drawing her ethereal version of Zephyr, and peppering the gargantuan automaton with arrows.

Two Icy Spears shot forth from the Guildmaster, but fared no better than Marcus' Frost Breath.

"It's too hot in here for frost-based attacks!" Dante yelled, before pulling the real Zephyr off his back and heading up one side of the mezzanine.

"Yeah, I figured that out," Marcus drawled, his dragonbone bow already in his hands. "Watch out!" he cried, as stream of liquid fire headed his way. He leaped to one side, narrowly avoiding being immolated, and rolled to his feet. The ring on his finger glowed red, reminding him how close he was to the grating on the floor. He was behind the metal man, who he privately thought of as the Forgemaster, and the automaton was lumbering itself around to face him.

 _Good,_ Marcus thought. _If his attention is on me, he won't be going after Greyshadow or Katria._

"Come on, Tin Man!" he yelled. "Come and get a piece of me!" He fired off two shots in quick succession, aiming at the plate on the chest which protected the dynamo core, but the Forgemaster brought up an arm and deflected the arrows.

That arm ended in a large, heavy ballista-style crossbow, and Marcus gulped.

 _"FEIM!"_ he Shouted, as the bolt was fired, and it passed harmlessly through the Dragonborn, hissing as it struck the lava behind him and melted away.

Several arrows slammed into the Forgemaster from behind, and it slowly swiveled the upper half of its body to glare in that direction. Marcus felt himself solidify and sheathed his bow, drawing Dragonbane. The Forgemaster belched forth another steady stream of lava, and Marcus heard Katria yell, _"Get down!"_

With his heart leaping to his throat, Marcus closed the distance while the Forgemaster had its back to him and gave a powerful slice through the cables and pulleys at the back of its knees. The Akaviri blade sliced neatly through, and screeched against the Dwemer metal behind them, but the Forgemaster didn't go down. Instead, it stumbled forward a step or two, but ceased its attack and turned to face this new menace.

 _Uh oh,_ Marcus thought. He retreated back across the grating, wincing in pain as he did so, until he got to the other side. Firing off the strongest healing spell he knew in his off hand, he watched the Forgemaster carefully to see what it would do next.

Rather than spew fire, it raised its other hand – the one that ended in a mallet the size of a suitcase – and advanced on the Dragonborn. The hammer came crashing down in the spot where Marcus had been moments before he ducked under the Forgemaster's swing. The Akaviri blade struck out once more, upwards, severing the cables that controlled the hammer hand. Sparks flew as steel met bronze, and bronze lost the fight. With the joint partially severed, the Forgemaster could not raise it for another blow.

Marcus backed off towards the stairs to the left of the entrance and raced up to where Katria kept up a steady volley of arrows from her position.

"Where's Greyshadow?" Marcus demanded, expecting to see the Guildmaster lying injured or unconscious on the floor.

" _I don't know,"_ the Nord ghost replied. _"He said he was going to try to get behind it, then he vanished in thin air!"_

"Damn him!" Marcus muttered. "Maybe you'd better stop shooting, since we don't know where he is."

" _Well, unless he's ten feet tall, I don't think I'll hit him,"_ Katria snorted. _"I'm aiming at that thing's head!"_

Grumbling uncomplimentary things under his breath, Marcus sent out his Aura Whisper and found the Nightingale on the main floor to the left of the grating, creeping towards the Forgemaster, who was now thundering towards the stairs.

"We've got incoming!" Marcus exclaimed, crouching and heading towards their opponent.

" _Are you crazy?"_ Katria cried. _"You'll get killed!"_

" _WULD NAH KEST!"_ Marcus Shouted, and sprinted across the intervening space between the two upper floors just in front of the Forgemaster, who was too slow to react. On the far-right side now, Marcus turned and shot a Lightning Bolt at the Forgemaster, who turned to face him and reared back for another fire breath.

"FEIM!" Marcus bellowed, calling upon his reserves to give another Shout without a proper cool-down. Magma splashed around him as he leaped over the side of the wall, landing lightly on the lower floor. He sheathed Dragonbane before drawing his bow again. Katria came down the stairs, and for a moment, Marcus was distracted by the fact that she was clearly, perfectly solid to him. Filing that information away, he focused on the job at hand.

With some distance from the Forgemaster, now, and knowing how slowly it moved, he fired two shots from his bow, hitting it in the chest. Past experience had shown Marcus that the act of attacking while ethereal ended his Shout in much the same way as it revealed the invisible. The arrows missed the dynamo core again, but stuck in the Dwemer metal where they hit and sank in deeply. Marcus hoped they hit something vital on the way in.

The Forgemaster shuddered suddenly, and for a moment Marcus thought his wish had come true, until he noticed the Nightingale behind the Forgemaster, dragging Inferno down its back, opening it up like a tin can. The Forgemaster dropped to its knees, wavering, and Dante pulled back his ebony blade, thrusting deep into the gash with Mehrunes Razor. Slowly, the gigantic metal animunculus toppled forward and lay still.

Except for the hissing and whooshing of Dwemer machinery, and the gurgling and popping of molten lava, all was silent in the Forge.

" _I can't believe it!"_ Katria sighed. _"We did it! We killed that thing!"_

"That was a fight I'll remember to my dying day," Dante concurred, breathing hard. "And look, the stairs have returned. We can leave."

" _Well, not yet!"_ Katria protested.

"Why?" asked the Guildmaster. "You've got your proof. We found the Forge."

" _How am I going to prove it?"_ she scowled. _"We have to make sure this is the real Aetherium Forge."_

"I rather doubt there are any others around," Dante chided. "So, any ideas on how we can do that?"

" _By forging something, of course,"_ Katria scowled.

"Uh huh," Dante nodded. "With…what, exactly?"

Katria stopped, realization sinking in. _"There isn't any aetherium here, is there? Damn it!"_

Dante shook his head, looking at Marcus, who shrugged.

" _Wait…"_ Katria said, her face clearing. _"Yes. Yes, there is. The shards we collected, remember?"_

"That's not really a whole lot, Katria," Marcus cautioned. He hated seeing her despair, but it would be foolish to get their hopes up. "I don't know what, if anything, we'd be able to make from it."

" _They're pure Aetherium,"_ Katria reminded them. _"I know it's not much, but it will have to do. With them, and the materials in this room, we should have everything we need."_

Dante looked dubious, but Marcus was catching some of Katria's enthusiasm.

"We'd be foolish not to try, Greyshadow," he said. "We've come all this way, after all."

"Alright, fine," Dante shrugged. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt. Let's see what those ancient Dwemer left behind. Do you want to do the honors, or shall I?"

"I think this is something we're going to have to work on together," Marcus replied, eyeing the Forge. "That's about the most complicated piece of Dwemer machinery I've ever seen."

They scoured the entire Forge chamber and turned up a handful of gems, some dwarven and ebony ingots, and some curious tools Marcus had never seen in a forge before, Dwemer or otherwise.

" _No doubt these tools were used by the Dwemer when they worked with the Forge,"_ Katria said.

"I hope we won't be required to use them," Dante said, eyeing them doubtfully. "I'm not even sure how to use them."

"I might be able to figure it out, given time," Marcus said, thinking they resembled power tools he'd used in his other life. "But there are some other hammers and tongs here that I do know how to use. Let's get started."

It took almost an hour to fathom how to turn the Forge on, so that it began pumping magma from the lake into its reservoir tanks to boil water and create the steam that drove the turbines. Once that was done, it took them a little more time to figure out where to put the ingots and shards to begin smelting them for casting.

" _Look at this panel,"_ Katria pointed out. Silhouettes on the glass showed a staff, a shield and a crown. _"The Forge already seems to know what you can make from the things you've put into it,"_ she breathed in wonder.

"Which one do we make?" Dante asked. "The Arch-Mage told us that anything made with aetherium would be imbued with incredible power from the moment of its forging. If we're going to do this, we only have one shot at it, and we need to make sure we make the right choice."

"I think I'd better call my wife," Marcus chuckled.

" _Call your wife?"_ Katria echoed. _"I don't understand."_

"Let's see if I can even reach her," Marcus qualified. "We have no idea how deep underground we are." He tapped his ear bud. "Tamsyn? Tamsyn, my love, are you there? Can you hear me?"

There was silence for a long moment, and Marcus had almost given up when the Arch-Mage's voice came in very faintly, as if from a great distance away. That in itself was unnerving, since they had been able to communicate back and forth with ease from Markarth to Winterhold, from Riften to Solitude.

" _I'm here dearest…"_ she said, though there was quite a lot of static present. _"I can barely hear you…where are you?"_

Marcus tapped the ear bud again to raise the volume, compensating for the noise around them. "We're in the Forge, sweetheart," he called, raising his voice as well. "We found it!"

Katria stared in wonder at the sound of another person's voice coming out of seemingly nowhere.

" _I'm so glad you're alright!"_ Tamsyn cried. _"Is everyone okay? Is…is Katria…"_

"She's here," Marcus grinned, gesturing Katria closer, so she could hear better. "Say hello to my wife," he encouraged her.

" _Uh..he…hello?"_ Katria ventured, uncertainly.

" _Katria!"_ Tamsyn gushed. _"Oh, you have no idea how glad I am to talk to you! I wanted so much to be there, to help you find the Forge!"_

" _Your husband told me,"_ Katria said, her throat working. _"He said…he said you believed in me."_

" _I do,"_ Tamsyn replied, and there was a curious strain in her voice as well. _"Oh, dammit! I promised myself I wouldn't cry!"_

Tears were already spilling down Katria's cheeks. _"Thank you for your faith in me, Arch-Mage,"_ she said. _"Forgive me, but I'm a bit overwhelmed at the moment."_ She stepped away and turned her back, fighting to get herself under control.

"Tamsyn, love," Marcus called now. "We need some advice. According to the panel on the Forge, we can either make a staff, a shield or a crown, but we don't know what they'll do once they're made."

" _Well, I'm not entirely sure, either,"_ his wife said, and he could hear the effort she was making to speak clearly. _"I can only tell you what I've…er…'Seen.' The staff should allow you to summon and control a Dwemer sphere or spider. The shield, when used to bash, turns your enemies ethereal. They can't be hit, but by the same token, they can't hit you, either."_

"What does the crown do, Arch-Mage?" Dante asked now. "So far, neither of those other options appeal to me."

" _Well, that's the real tricky question,"_ Tamsyn replied. _"I know what it might do, but my scryings indicate there's another possibility."_

Again, there was a pause as Tamsyn collected her thoughts, and Marcus felt she was privately considering just how much she could safely reveal.

" _I'm sure you know of all thirteen Standing Stones scattered around Skyrim. These Stones sometimes give a person a blessing, allowing them to do things like improve their skills in combat and magic faster, turn invisible briefly, carry extra weight around, that sort of thing. It's possible that the Crown would do no more than allow the blessings of two Stones to work in tandem with each other, rather than canceling one out in favor of the other."_

"What's the other possibility you foresaw?" Marcus asked.

" _Let me see if I can explain this in a way that makes sense,"_ Tamsyn said, and he could almost hear her frowning in concentration. _"Each race in Tamriel seems to have certain racial qualities that are exclusive to each. Master Greyshadow and I are Breton. We have an inherent resistance to magic that is cast at us. We also have an ability to negate about half of the magic that does hit us. You, Marcus, are an Imperial. Imperials always seem to find a bit more gold than other people. And you have that golden tongue of yours that allows you to persuade people to see things your way. Katria is a Nord; they are resistant to cold weather and frost attacks, and in battle can ululate an incredibly intimidating war cry that terrorizes their enemies and causes them to flee in panic. Wearing the Aetherial Crown may very well boost and enhance those abilities. Or not. I really have no way of knowing for sure. I'm just a Seer."_

"I'm willing to take a chance on the Crown," Dante said.

"I think that's our best bet, too," Marcus agreed. "Aicantar is very close to getting the automatons under control, and turning your enemies ethereal only delays having to deal with them."

" _The Crown it is, then,"_ Katria agreed.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Marcus said. "You and Madanach be careful in Falkreath. We'll try to catch up to you soon."

" _Bye for now, darling,"_ Tamsyn answered. _"If I don't see you before you leave for Cyrodiil, Master Greyshadow, please be careful and have a safe trip back."_

"You don't need to worry about me," Dante replied. "I'll be fine."

" _Katria, good-bye,"_ Tamsyn said. _"I wish I could have met you, but I'm glad I got to talk to you."_

" _Good-bye, Arch-Mage,"_ Katria replied, _"and thank you again!"_

There was silence, and Marcus knew Tamsyn had disconnected.

"Shall we get started then?" Dante invited.

Two and a half hours later, they had their crown. Marcus had never seen anything quite so beautiful. Except Tamsyn, he thought indulgently. And the kids.

Made of a combination of Dwemer metal and ebony smelted together, it had the look of bronze with the strength of ebony. Five crystals of pure aetherium adorned the front of the circlet, with a large central gem flanked by two smaller ones on either side.

 _"That Crown,"_ Katria breathed. _"It's…it's everything I could have hoped for. And with that..."_ she sighed, _"it's done. No one could possibly deny what we've found now."_

"What will you do now, Katria?" Marcus asked kindly.

 _"Me?"_ Katria chuckled. _"I've done what I set out to do. But you... take that out into the world. And if anyone asks, tell them what we discovered. Together."_

Dante bowed to her. "Thank you for all your help, Katria."

Marcus smiled. "Yes, but I think I can do better than a mere 'thank you. _' FEIM ZII GRON!"_

As he suspected, once he became ethereal, Katria stood before him, as solid as a living person.

"What is this?" she gasped, her eyes huge. "How are you doing that?"

In the substantial world, Dante chuckled. _"Dragonborn,"_ was all he said.

Marcus grinned. "I wanted to do more than just tell you how grateful we are for your assistance," he told her, coming closer. "I wanted to show you." He wrapped his arms around her, like an older brother, and hugged her close. "Thank you, Katria. We will never forget you."

Katria didn't trust herself to respond, but hugged him as tight as she could, before the thu'um ended and Marcus was thrust back into solidity once more.

Katria wiped her eyes and sniffled unashamedly. _"And now..."_ she whispered, as she began to fade, _"I think I can rest. Farewell, my friends, wherever your travels take you."_

She vanished, and the two men stood quietly for some time, each brooding upon his own thoughts. It was Dante who spoke first.

"We should go," he said roughly, clearing his throat several times. "And we should probably decide who gets to keep this." He caressed the circlet with gentle fingers.

Marcus smiled. "You keep it," he said generously. "Every Emperor needs a Crown."

* * *

 _[Author's Note: Again, I would like to thank The Oracle and his team for allowing me to include information on the pantheon of the Old Gods of the Reach in my story. Next up, the Second Great War begins. Stay tuned!]_


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